SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 


BY 

RICHARD   FREE 

M 

AUTHOR  OF  S<A  CRY  FROM  THE  DARKNESS ' 


"  I  spoke  as  I  saw." 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

1905 

All  rights  reset ved 


,l> 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


SEVEN    YEARS'     HARD 


255110 


TO  MY  BROTHER 

Hard-handed  Brother,  stunted  and  warped  with  toil, 
Thy  stolid  face,  thy  dull,  unseeing  eyes, 
Thy  lips  too  stern  and  shut  for  moans  or  sighs, 
Thy  very  flesh  defiled  with  daily  moil 
Fill  me  with  shame  and  pity.     Son  of  the  soil, 

Helpless  and  hopeless,  spent  in  the  scuffle  of  life, — 
Thou,  with  thy  little  ones  and  the  pale,  patient  wife, 
What's  left  to  thee  but  the  submissive  smile 
That  glows,  like  the  last  flash  of  dying  day, 

Kindly  but  coldly,  rare  and  yet  ever  rarer  ? 
"  Let  be  ! "  thou  criest.     "  Say  that  I  pinch  to  pay 
The  weekly  rent,  the  cupboard  growing  barer, 
My  belly  emptier — why,  what's  the  odds  ?  " 
And  thus  thy  great  calm  soul  is  one  with  God's. 


The  author  begs  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  Messrs.  Francis 
Day,  and  Hunter,  for  their  kind  permission  in  allowing  him  to 
quote  the  words  of  the  songs  marked  with  an  asterisk  in 
Chapter  VI.,  and  to  Messrs.  Charles  Sheard  and  Co.,  Messrs. 
Feldham,  Bertram  and  Co.,  the  Proprietors  of  the  News  of  the 
World,  and  Mr.  Richard  F.  W.  Maynard,  for  the  others  that  are 
quoted. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  WORD  TO  THE  READER  .....  ........         ix 


PROLOGUE  .....................       xiii 

CHAPTER  I 


A   CITY  OF  DESOLATION 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  CHILDREN   OF  THE   EAST 28 

CHAPTER  III 
VICES , 57 

CHAPTER  IV 

VIRTUES 83 

CHAPTER  V 

LIMITATIONS IO9 

CHAPTER  VI 

RECREATIONS 132 

CHAPTER  VII 

WORK   AND  WAGE  .  l6l 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  VIII 

PAGE 

THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE 1 86 

CHAPTER  IX 

SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY 2O6 

CHAPTER  X 

CHRISTIANITY  A   FAILURE 238 

EPILOGUE 258 


A  WORD  TO  THE  READER 

THIS  book  is  a  human  document.  It  professes  to  be 
no  more ;  it  claims  to  be  no  less.  The  persons  who 
figure  in  it  are  living,  breathing  realities,  not  creations  of 
pen  and  inkpot.  The  experiences  recorded  in  it  are 
history,  not  myth,  and  have  been  cast  into  mould  piping- 
hot  from  the  memory. 

Being  a  simple  record  of  fact,  this  book  seeks  neither 
to  flatter  nor  to  disparage.  Therefore,  parts  of  it  may 
be  found  unpalatable ;  while  other  parts,  let  us  hope, 
will  be  found  palatable.  The  mixture  should  surprise 
no  one.  Human  life  is  made  up  in  that  way,  simply 
because  human  life  is  fact  and  not  fiction.  I  have  not 
written  a  novel,  but  a  history. 

I  believe  experience  is  given  us  to  be  used.  I  believe 
that  facts  have  their  lessons,  even  for  the  humblest.  In 
so  far  as  facts  are  faithfully  recorded,  they  are  valuable. 
They  are  valueless  only  when  they  are  glossed  over  or 
misrepresented.  It  is  certain  that  false  inferences  may 
be  drawn  from  true  facts ;  it  is  equally  certain  that  the 
facts  remain.  They  are  "stubborn  things,"  very 


x  A  WORD  TO  THE  READER 

tenacious  of  life  ;  and,  one  day,  they  will  inevitably 
yield  their  secret.  Meantime,  the  most  that  any  of  us 
can  do  is  to  gather  them,  question  them,  and  honestly 
tell  the  world  what  we  believe  to  be  their  answers. 

In  this  book  I  have  used  the  terms  "  East  End," 
"  East-ender "  in  the  accepted  sense.  Let  any  reader 
who  finds  himself  at  variance  with  statements  regarding 
the  one  or  the  other,  remember  that  "the  exception 
proves  the  rule."  No  one  is  more  alive  than  I  to  the 
fact  that  some  of  the  East  End  is  \Vest  End  in  all  but 
name,  even  as  many  West-enders  may  be  East-enders  at 
heart.  But  for  the  practical  purpose  in  hand  the  words 
must  connote  specific  qualities,  and  no  connotation 
could  be  better,  or  more  generally  accurate,  than  the 
popular  one. 

This  book  has  been  put  together  in  odd  moments  of  a 
busy  life.  Chapters  of  it  have  been  written  at  the  fag- 
ends  of  laborious  days  ;  paragraphs,  and  even  single 
sentences  of  it,  have  been  violently  sandwiched  between 
preaching  and  scrubbing,  choir-training  and  sing-song 
dancing-classes  and  prayers  for  the  dying.  Moreover, 
it  has  not  been  compiled  in  that  sweet  solitude  so  dear 
to  the  literary  expert.  The  smells  of  fried  fish,  boiling 
soap,  and  stewing  cocoanuts  have  been  aggressively 
obvious ;  the  cries  and  screams  of  children,  filled  with 
the  wild  joy  of  life  or  its  wilder  pain,  have  formed  a  kind 
of  running  accompaniment  to  my  theme ;  while  my 
auditory  nerve  has  been  kept  painfully  alert  by  the 
piano-organist,  the  vendor  of  shrimps,  the  muffin-man, 


A  WORD  TO  THE  READER  xi 

the  seller  of  songs  (vocally  illustrated),  the  gentleman  in 
drink,  and  the  lady  in  a  passion.  But  why  have  I  had 
to  endure  the  unspeakable  conversation  of  certain 
persons  who  shall  be  nameless,  and  who,  I  feel  sure,  did 
not  mean  to  be  objectionable,  but  were  ?  And,  in  its 
usual  parrot-fashion,  echo  answers,  "  Why  ?  " 


PROLOGUE 

"  I  AM  tired  of  preaching  to  silks  and  satins,"  I  said  ; 
"  rags  and  tatters  would  be  a  welcome  change." 

The  Bishop  lifted  grave,  kind  eyes,  in  which  lurked 
more  than  a  suspicion  of  amusement. 

"  I  see.  The  conventionality  of  civilised  society  palls 
on  you  ;  you  want  something  more " 

"  Real !  "  I  cried  with  conviction.  The  word  gave  me 
a  feeling  of  bodily  and  mental  vigour  such  as  I  had  not 
known  for  many  a  long  month.  "  Real !  That's  it.  I 
want  to  get  at  the  foundation  of  things,  to  see  human 
nature  without  its  paint  and  gew-gaws  ;  I  want  to  face 
up  to  it,  understand  it,  learn  my  lesson  from  it." 

Looking  back  over  the  seven  years  that  have  passed 
since  these  words  were  uttered,  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
was  very  young  then  ;  and  it  also  seems  to  me,  as  I 
write,  that  I  am  quite  old  now.  For,  if  experience  ages 
us,  then  twenty  years  have  passed  since  that  memorable 
day  on  which  I  sat  in  a  dim  little  study  in  the  heart  of 
the  City,  and  gazed  on  the  scholarly  face  of  George 
Forrest  Browne,  Bishop  of  Stepney. 

The    suspicion   of  amusement  in  the  Bishop's  eyes 


xiv  PROLOGUE 

deepened.  He  paused  awhile,  as  if  weighing  something 
in  his  mind.  Then  he  said,  with  the  peculiar  force  and 
directness  so  characteristic  of  him — 

"  You  want  an  unconventional  sphere  of  labour ;  you 
can  have  it.  You  want  to  see  human  nature  in  its 
primitive  condition ;  your  wish  can  be  gratified.  At 
this  very  moment  I  need  a  man  for  pioneering  missionary 
work.  It  will  be  rough ;  it  will  be  hard  ;  it  will  be  dis- 
couraging. There  is  no  house  to  live  in  ;  there  is  no 
church  to  worship  in  ;  there  is  no  endowment,  or  fund, 
or  anything  of  that  kind  to  draw  upon  for  working 
expenses.  I  think  I  can  secure  you  a  stipend  of  £150 
a  year,  and  I  know  I  can  put  my  hand  on  money  for 
building  purposes.  Well  ?  " 

I  began  to  feel  somewhat  uncomfortable.  The  study 
suddenly  grew  gloomy,  the  air  chilly.  The  Bishop 
spoke  again — 

"  Of  course,  you  know  the  Isle  of  Dogs  ?  " 

Yes.  At  least,  I  had  heard  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  To 
tell  truth,  a  vision  of  flannels,  a  light  outrigger,  broiling 
summer  sun,  and  a  purling  stream  emerged  from  some- 
where at  the  back  of  my  mind,  recalling  halcyon  days 
of  another  period. 

"Yes,  I  may  say  I  know  it,"  I  continued  eagerly. 
"  Up  river  ?  Twickenham  way  ?  " 

Back  went  the  Bishop's  head,  as  that  lurking  suspicion 
of  a  smile  broke  at  last  into  audible  laughter. 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !  Miles  away  from  Twickenham  and 
all  that  Twickenham  means.  Nothing  so  attractive,  I 


PROLOGUE  xv 

assure  you.  Limehouse  !  Millwall !  That's  much  nearer 
the  mark." 

I  sat  still.  It  was  rather  sudden.  "  Limehouse  "  con- 
jured up  a  picture  of  an  impure  stream  bounded  by 
dirty  streets  ;  "  Millwall  "  suggested  river  mud  and  long 
levels  of  decaying  vegetation.  The  Twickenham  picture 
was  blotted  out. 

"  Well  ?  "     The  Bishop  looked  at  me  keenly. 

"  I'll  go." 

At  that  moment  I  was  conscious  of  something  like  a 
call.  I  realised  that  this  thing  had  come  to  me  uninvited, 
unexpected.  I  wanted  work ;  work  presented  itself. 
Not,  it  is  true,  in  the  way  I  had  anticipated,  but  perhaps 
in  a  far  better  way.  Another  Will  than  mine  seemed  to 
be  in  the  business. 

<l  Yes,  I'll  go,"  I  repeated  with  conviction. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  think  it  over  ?  " 

"  No.  Thank  you — but,  No.  My  resolution  is  taken. 
God  helping  me,  I'll  do  what  I  can." 

Two  minutes  later  I  was  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard, 
looking  up  at  the  dome  in  a  dazed  way,  and  vaguely 
conscious  that  I  had  entered  upon  a  new  phase  of  my 
life.  A  sense  of  elation,  hard  to  define,  filled  me  to 
overflowing.  I  was  sensible  of  the  pressure  of  the 
Bishop's  hand  closing  over  mine  in  a  farewell  grip  ;  I 
was  sensible  of  still  another  pressure,  less  tangible,  even 
more  real,  that  seemed  to  be  driving  me  into  new 
activities. 


SEVEN    YEARS'    HARD 

CHAPTER  I 

A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION 

MANY  intelligent  people,  as  I  now  know,  are  every 
whit  as  ignorant  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs 
as  I  was  in  the  autumn  of  1 896.  They  have  confounded 
it  with  the  Island  of  Sheppey,  with  Isleworth,  with  the 
Isle  of  Man,  and  with  the  Isle  of  Wight.  But,  in  more 
senses  than  one,  the  Isle  of  Dogs  is  far  removed  from 
any  of  these  places.  It  lies  close  to  the  centre  of 
London,  it  is  true,  snugly  ensconced,  as  it  were,  in  the 
bosom  of  the  Thames  between  Ratcliff  and  Blackwali. 
As  the  crow  flies,  the  cottage  in  which  I  live,  grandilo- 
quently yclept  St.  Cuthbert's  Lodge,  is  as  nearly  as 
possible  two  miles  "from  the  Tower.  The  crow  would 
be  able  to  take  in  the  position  at  a  glance.  He  would 
perceive  this  house,  so  near  to  and  yet  so  far  from  the 
heart  of  things,  in  a  tangle  of  masts  and  chimneys, 
and,  being  a  bird  of  parts,  would  doubtless  chuckle  at 
the  thought  that  his  strong  wings  could  bear  him,  in  a 
few  delicious  moments,  over  a  space  that  takes  the 
human  biped  a  painful  hour  to  traverse.  He  would  see 
that  from  the  Tower  Bridge  the  Thames  flows  for  a  half-a- 
mile  or  so  in  a  fairly  straight  line,  trending  very  slightly 

B 


SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 


to  the  south,  tiid:' that  below  Wapping  Old  Stairs,  at  the 
entrance  to  the  Pool  immortalised  by  Mr.  Vicat  Cole, 
it  slowly  rises  for  a  good  mile  and  three-quarters,  drops 
due  south  again,  gracefully  curves  away  to  the  east,  and 
finally  flings  up  to  its  original  level.  The  space  thus 
enclosed,  measuring,  roughly,  a  mile  and  a-half  from 
north  to  south  and  a  mile  from  east  to  west,  is  known 
as  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  Anciently,  when  it  formed  part  of 
Stepney  Marsh,  it  was  not  even  a  peninsula  ;  but  now  it 
is  an  island  indeed,  "  entirely  surrounded  by  water," 
the  West  India  Docks  enclosing  it  on  the  north  and 
the  river  closely  hugging  it  on  the  other  three  sides. 

The  Isle  of  Dogs  lies  near  to  the  heart  of  the  great 
city,  yet  in  many  respects  it  is  more  remote  from  it  than 
the  remotest  of  suburbs.  The  difficulty  of  getting  to  it 
is  almost  incredible.  Not  merely  must  the  ambitious 
traveller  struggle  with  'bus  and  train,  discovering  to  his 
horror  that  the  one  never  by  any  possible  chance  fits  in 
with  the  other — such  ills  are  normal :  human  flesh  is 
heir  to  them  everywhere  ;  but  he  must  reckon  with  the 
swing  bridges,  which  isolate  the  Island  like  the  draw- 
bridges of  a  mediaeval  castle.  He  may  be  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  his  destination,  he  may  have  a  most 
important  engagement ;  yet  he  must  possess  his  soul  in 
superhuman  patience  while  some  great  liner  passes  by 
at  a  snail's  pace,  its  mighty  bulk  towering  high  above 
him,  its  outlandish  name  in  glittering  letters  silently 
declaring  the  unknown  country  whence  it  comes.  It  is 
true  that  the  law  provides  that  the  ambitious  traveller 
shall  not  be  tried  above  that  he  is  able,  and  that  the 
opening  of  the  swing  bridges  shall  be  strictly  regulated  ; 
but  because  there  are  few  people  in  the  Isle  of  Dogs 
who  care,  and  fewer  still  who  have  the  courage  to 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  3 

complain,  the  law  is  flouted,  and  men  bursting  with 
business  are  kept  hanging  about  the  quays,  kicking 
their  heels  because  the  dock  authorities  are  not  avail- 
able. 

Nor  may  the  ambitious  traveller  escape  by  taking  to 
the  railway.  His  very  ticket  officially  informs  him  that 
the  various  companies  "  do  not  hold  themselves  respon- 
sible for  any  delays  which  may  arise  in  the  docks 
through  the  necessary  opening  of  the  swing  bridges  "  ; 
and  so  the  tiny  primitive  train,  drawn  by  the  tiny 
primitive  engine  locally  known  as  the  "  Dustbin,"  whose 
energy  is  in  inverse  proportion  to  its  size,  may  find  itself 
stranded  on  the  edge  of  the  dock,  snorting  weak  defiance, 
while  some  lordly  tyrant  of  ten  thousand  tons  slips  from 
her  berth  with  maddening  deliberation,  and  steals  down 
to  the  waiting  river. 

Where  did  the  Isle  of  Dogs  get  its  name?  The 
answer  is  not  immediately  forthcoming.  "  Millwall  "  is 
pretty  obvious.  Windmills  to  the  number  of  seven 
once  adorned  the  river  wall  on  the  west.  A  view  of  old 
London,  taken  from  One  Tree  Hill  in  Greenwich  Park, 
shows  them  in  company  with  seven  smaller  buildings, 
over  which  they  appear  to  be  exercising  a  discreet 
supervision.  Until  within  a  comparatively  recent 
period,  several  of  these  mills  were  traceable ;  and  for 
many  years  a  veteran  survivor  of  the  famous  seven 
struggled  successfully  against  destiny.  Vestiges  of  this 
mill  were  visible  until  quite  lately  at  the  Roman  Cement 
works,  now  Barrel's  Wharf,  which  lies  close  to  the  site 
of  the  old  Millwall  pier ;  and  its  memory  was  kept 
green,  long  after  its  final  disappearance,  by  the  ancient 
Windmill  Inn  to  which  it  gave  its  name. 

"  Poplar,"  too,  which  was  originally  a  regal  manor  in 

B  2 


4  SEVEN   YEARS'  HARD 

the  parish  of  Stepney,  presents  little  difficulty,  at  once 
suggesting  the  poplar  trees  which  of  old  grew  abund- 
antly in  the  moist  soil  of  the  marsh  ;  and  "  Stepney  "  is 
clearly  one  with  "  Steben,"  as  found  in  Steben  Heath  and 
Steben  Heath  Marsh,  and  survives  in  Stebondale  Street. 
But  the  Isle  of  Dogs  is  a  harder  nut  to  crack.  What 
had  the  place  to  do  with  dogs  ?  Some  one  answers  that 
when  Court  was  kept  at  Greenwich  the  Royal  hounds 
were  kennelled  there,  "  which  usually  making  great 
noises,  the  seamen  and  others  thereupon  called  the  place 
the  Isle  of  Dogs."  "  But  why  not  have  kennelled  them 
in  Greenwich  Park  or  on  Blackheath  ? "  objects  the 
captious  critic. 

Another  suggestion  is  "  drowned  dogs  "  ;  but  for  what 
reason  the  wretched  animals  should  have  selected  the 
Island  for  a  sepulchre  is  not  explained. 

Still  sticking  to  dogs,  a  third  historian  has  a  horrible 
tale  to  tell.  A  certain  waterman  did  an  unfortunate 
gentleman  to  death  on  what  was  then  literally  a  desert 
island.  The  dog  of  the  murdered  man  watched  over 
his  master's  body  until  driven  to  cross  the  river  for  food, 
but  as  soon  as  his  hunger  was  satisfied,  back  he  swam  to 
his  gruesome  vigil.  This  action,  several  times  repeated, 
at  length  attracted  attention,  and  the  body  was  dis- 
covered. The  animal's  obvious  antagonism  to  a  certain 
waterman  finally  fixed  the  murderer,  who  confessed  to 
the  crime,  and  was  executed. 

"  Not  dogs  !  "  observes  another  unconscious  humorist ; 
"  Ducks  !  wild  ducks  !  "  But  no  proof  is  forthcoming 
that  wild  fowl  of  any  kind  ever  foregathered  in  the 
place. 

In  spite  of  Dr.  Dryasdust,  who  affirms  that  in  olden 
times  the  Island  was  a  wilderness  of  rank  grasses,  and 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  5 

that  the  docks  are  of  quite  recent  construction,  it  has 
been  reserved  to  me  to  be  the  proud  discoverer  of  the 
obvious.  The  Isle  of  Dogs  is,  of  course,  the  Isle  of 
Docks  \  Why  not  ? 

Talking  of  derivations  reminds  me  of  the  curious 
significance  of  the  names  of  streets  hereabouts.  Need- 
less to  say,  the  word  "  Ferry  "  abounds.  We  have  East 
Ferry  Road,  West  Ferry  Road,  Deptford  Ferry  Road, 
and  so  on.  Staple  trades  appear  in  Silver  Street  and 
Lead  Street ;  the  names  of  the  great  landlords  in 
Glengall  Road,  Cahir  Street,  Hellish  Street,  and  Maria 
Street ;  those  of  the  little  landlords  in  Elizabeth,  Laura, 
and  Bradshaw  Cottages  ;  while  Crewe  Street,  Marsh 
Street,  Malabar  Street,  and  Cuba  Street  convey  their 
own  lessons. 

All  down  the  ages,  land  and  water  appear  to  have 
been  engaged  in  a  fierce  struggle  for  the  possession  of 
the  Isle  of  Dogs,  the  river  constantly  encroaching  upon 
the  foreshore,  and  the  foreshore  being  as  constantly  forti- 
fied by  embankments  and  dykes.  Before  the  fifteenth 
century  the  Island  was  inhabited  ;  but  most  of  the  build- 
ings then  existing  were  destroyed  by  the  bursting  of  the 
river  bank  near  the  shipyard  at  Limehouse  Hole.  When, 
at  a  later  date,  the  "  Mill  Wall  "  was  built,  the  land  thus 
enclosed  developed  into  "  a  fine,  rich  level  for  fattening 
cattle,"  resorted  to  by  breeders  from  England  and  the 
Continent.  Not  only  so,  but  the  place  actually  became 
a  kind  of  hospital,  where  diseased  animals  were  treated 
to  a  course  of  healing  grass.  The  historian  waxes  warm 
with  admiration  of  the  prices  fetched  by  sundry  sows, 
cows,  and  sheep  reared  on  this  favoured  spot,  and  in  a 
burst  of  confidence  tells  of  a  redoubtable  butcher  who 
undertook  to  furnish  from  the  Island  a  weekly  leg  of 


6  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

mutton  of  not  less  than  twenty-eight  pounds'  weight, 
"  or  he  would  have  nothing  for  them  ;  and  he  did 
perform  it." 

A  romantic  touch  is  afforded  by  the  visit  of  Samuel 
Pepys  in  the  seventeenth  century  ;  and  a  certain  spirit- 
ual significance  may  be  attached  to  the  establishment,  at 
an  unknown  period,  of  a  religious  house. 

From  a  very  early  date  a  small  stone  chapel,  connected 
with  the  Monastery  of  St.  Mary  of  Graces  near  the 
Tower,  stood,  as  ruins  once  testified,  in  the  midst  of  a 
considerable  community.  From  the  number  of  large 
hooks  unearthed  it  has  been  inferred  that  these  early 
residents  were  fishermen  ;  and  the  suggestion  has  been 
made  that  the  hamlet  was  used  as  a  spiritual  retreat  or 
as  a  penal  settlement  for  monks.  For  many  years  a 
large  building  which  went  under  the  name  of  the  Chapel 
House  stood  near  the  chapel  ;  and  one  of  the  side  streets 
of  the  West  Ferry  Road  still  bears  the  name  of  Chapel 
House  Street.  Curiously  enough,  too,  there  exists  a 
latter-day  belief  that  the  Roman  Catholics  send  their 
clergy  to  the  Isle  of  Dogs  by  way  of  penance  even  unto 
this  day. 

It  was  in  the  year  of  the  Great  Plague — to  be  exact,  on 
July  3  ist,  1665 — that  dear  old  Pepys  paid  us  a  visit. 
He  was  on  his  way  with  Sir  George  and  Lady  Carteret 
to  their  daughter's  wedding,  and  he  records  the  adven- 
ture in  his  Diary  in  his  own  inimitable  fashion : — 

"  Up  ;  and  very  betimes  by  six  o'clock  at  Deptford, 
and  there  find  Sir  G.  Carteret,  and  my  Lady  ready  to  go  ; 
I  being  in  my  new  coloured  silk  suit,  and  coat  trimmed 
with  gold  buttons  and  gold  broad  lace  round  my  hands, 
very  rich  and  fine.  By  water  to  the  Ferry,  where,  when 
we  come,  no  coach  there  ;  and  tide  of  ebb  so  far  spent  as 


,  A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  7 

the  horse-boat  could  not  get  off  on  the  other  side  the  river 
to  bring  away  the  coach.  So  we  were  fain  to  stay  there 
in  the  unlucky  Isle  of  Doggs,  in  a  chill  place,  the  morning 
cool,  and  wind  fresh,  above  two  if  not  three  hours  to  our 
great  discontent." 

It  was  a  peaceful,  rural  landscape  on  which  Pepys's 
discontented  eyes  fell  that  summer  morning.  There  were 
no  factories,  no  docks,  no  iron-yards  to  be  seen.  But 
the  seven  mills  were  there,  their  arms  whirling  merrily  in 
the  breeze,  and  telling  forth  in  creaks  and  groans  the 
mighty  works  which  should  be  done  in  this  forsaken  land 
in  days  to  come. 

"  The  unlucky  Isle  of  Doggs  !  "  Why  ?  Well,  perhaps 
its  name  and  its  reputation  were  not  unconnected.  Two 
or  three  hundred  years  ago,  going  to  the  Isle  of  Dogs 
was  not  a  very  different  matter  from  going  to  the  dogs. 
In  the  seventeenth  century,  one  James  Naylor  was  found 
guilty  of  blasphemy.  When  the  question  of  his  punish- 
ment was  debated  in  Parliament,  one  member  suggested 
that  his  tongue  should  be  slit,  another  that  his  hair 
should  be  cutoff,  a  third  that  he  should  be  whipped,  a  fourth 
that  he  should  be  sent  to  the  Isle  of  Dogs.  At  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  Thomas  Nash  was  imprisoned  in 
the  Fleet  for  writing  a  play  called  "  The  Isle  of  Dogs  "  ; 
and  it  is  well  established  that  persons  of  evil  repute 
were  apt  to  fly  thither  to  evade  their  creditors.  More- 
over, the  bodies  of  pirates  gibbeted  on  the  Island,  and 
swinging  there,  a  ghastly  sight  to  see,  would  bring  but 
little  credit  to  the  "  Dogs."  At  one  time  the  curious 
visitor  to  Greenwich,  by  means  of  the  telescope  of  some 
ancient  mariner,  could,  for  a  penny  or  so,  get  a  glimpse 
of  these  gentlemen  as  they  hung  ;  but  William  IV. 
having  wisely  ordered  the  unsightly  gallows  to  be 


8  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

removed,  the  bodies  of  the  felons  and  the  occupation  of 
the  ancient  mariners  disappeared  at  one  and  the  same 
time. 

On  a  blustering  winter  evening  I  arrived  in  my  new 
domain.  Over  the  perils  and  dangers  of  my  journeyings 
thither  I  would  fain  draw  the  veil  of  oblivion.  Suffice 
it  to  say,  I  arrived.  It  was  not  my  first  visit  to  the 
East  End  ;  and  as  I  neared  my  destination,  I  was 
sensible  of  certain  familiar  odours,  and  recognised  the 
river-men  in  their  jerseys  and  the  labourers  in  their 
corduroys.  I  passed  shops  which  had  an  indescribable 
nautical  air  about  them,  shops  where  you  can  buy  com- 
passes, and  rope,  and  paint,  and  weird  oil-skin  coats, 
specimens  of  which  dangle  aloft,  gleaming  with  out- 
stretched arms,  inviting  purchasers.  All  these,  and 
more,  I  had  seen  before  ;  but  the  West  Ferry  Road  was 
a  new  thing  to  me  ;  and  as  my  eyes  lighted  for  the  first 
time  upon  what  was  soon  to  become  to  me  the  most 
familiar  highway  in  the  world,  I  was  conscious  of  a 
strange  feeling  of  helplessness  and  loneliness.  Had  I 
been  suddenly  spirited  to  the  very  ends  of  the  earth,  I 
could  not  have  felt  more  completely  isolated.  St.  Paul's, 
the  Nelson  Monument,  the  Houses  of  Parliament  were  as 
though  they  had  never  been.  The  dreariness  was  un- 
speakable. Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  were  nothing 
but  chimneys  and  dead  walls,  dead  walls  and  chimneys, 
mean  houses,  chimneys,  and  dead  walls.  The  long, 
curving  street,  swept  by  wind  and  rain,  was  empty 
save  for  children  in  twos  and  threes  playing  at  the  open 
doors,  groups  of  men  bolstering  up  the  beer-shops,  or 
little  knots  of  women  gossiping  at  the  street  corners.  It 
was  a  scene  of  the  most  utter  desolation. 

But,  suddenly,  as  I  gazed  with  a  sense  of  petrification, 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  9 

a  blast  of  sound  split  the  solid  silence  ;  and  instantly,  as 
it  were  through  the  rent,  scrambled  a  hurry  and  scurry 
of  noises,  of  big  bells  and  little  bells,  screaming  sirens 
and  shrill  whistles,  all  clanging  and  banging,  and  shriek- 
ing and  squeaking,  and  moaning  and  groaning,  until  the 
air  seemed  thick  with  wild,  wrangling  presences,  and  the 
heart  was  full  of  mighty  emotions.  Yet,  still  the  rain- 
swept road  was  deserted,  save  for  the  playing  children 
and  the  sodden  men  and  the  gossiping  women.  But 
even  as  I  mused  on  the  strangeness  of  it  all,  came  my 
first  great  sensation.  In  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  the  empty  street  swarmed  with  a  motley  mass  of 
humanity.  Women,  with  hair  as  white  as  snow,  who  had 
been  working  all  day  in  rooms  thick  with  pernicious  dust  ; 
boys,  black  as  sweeps,  who  had  been  since  early  morning 
in  suffocating  engine-rooms,  or  hurrying  from  wharf  to 
barge  laden  with  sacks  of  coal-dust ;  girls,  whose  red 
eyes  testified  to  the  pungent  atmosphere  in  which  they 
had  been  toiling  since  dawn,  whose  hacking  coughs  bore 
witness  to  lungs  clogged  with  the  deadly  off-scourings  of 
their  labour;  men,  rugged,, suffering,  gaunt,  weary  with 
every  conceivable  kind  of  work,  relieving  their  pent-up 
feelings  in  coarse  jests  or  blasphemous  oaths — down  the 
road  they  swept,  like  a  turbulent,  ill-conditioned  stream, 
foully  begrimed  by  terrible  necessity,  yet  intended  by 
the  Creator  for  cleanliness  and  purity,  a  human  type  of 
the  grand  old  river  flowing  but  a  few  yards  from  them, 
whose  pure  waters  had  become  loathsome  by  human 
selfishness  and  folly.  It  was  a  strange  sight.  I  could 
have  laughed  at  it ;  I  could  have  cried  at  it.  It  was 
ludicrous  ;  it  was  terrific. 

An  hour  later  the  wind  blew  in  fitful  gusts,  driving  the 
rain   before   it   in    noisy,   drenching    showers.     In   the 


io  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

glimmering  lamplight  an  occasional  figure  could  be  seen 
bravely  heading  the  rising  storm,  and  hiding  from  prying 
eyes  the  precious  pot  of  beer  or  quartern  of  gin.  From 
a  public-house,  hard  by  the  river,  rose  in  uncouth  song 
the  hoarse  roar  of  men  ;  and,  ever  and  again,  the  shrill 
treble  of  women  broke  a  way  through  by  sheer  force, 
producing  an  effect  uncanny  in  the  extreme.  No  music 
this,  fair  friends,  but  only  noise  ;  noise  of  the  wildest  and 
weirdest,  fit  symbol  of  the  wild,  weird  life  of  these 
brothers  and  sisters  of  ours.  And  to  me,  as  I  listened, 
there  came  a  sudden  sweep  of  wind,  carrying  this  howl 
of  defiance, — 

"  When  you  get  to  the  end  of  your  life, 
There's  nothing  to  do  but  die." 

A  City  of  Desolation  !  "  That  was  my  first  fleeting 
impression  of  Millwall ;  that,  more  or  less,  has  been  my 
constant  impression  during  my  seven  years'  residence 
here.  I  found  the  place  badly  lighted,  astonishingly 
foul,  inconceivably  smelly,  and  miserably  bare  and  life- 
less. A  few  wretched  lamps  shed  their  fitful  gleams  on 
the  prevailing  filth,  and  not  infrequently,  as  if  tired  of 
trying  to  make  things  the  least  bit  cheerful,  went  out 
altogether.  The  streets  were,  as  a  rule,  abominably 
dirty,  and  only  doubtfully  clean  at  the  best  of  times. 
The  mud — and  oh,  heavens,  what  mud  ! — was  allowed 
to  remain  in  the  gutters  for  days  and  even  weeks 
together,  the  authorities  contenting  themselves  with 
sweeping  it  into  miniature  mountains  and  leaving  it 
there  to  rot.  Mighty  horses,  dragging  great  drays 
behind  them,  plunged  through  these  muck-heaps,  scat- 
tering them  hither  and  thither  until  road  and  sidewalk 
were  impassable  without  defilement.  The  smells,  which 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  n 

were  as  pungent  and  distinct  as  the  forty-and-two  of 
Cologne,  were  rendered  barely  tolerable  by  the  vicinity 
of  the  river. 

Ah !  that  wonderful  old  river  !  How  little  we  realise 
what  we  owe  to  Father  Thames,  in  spite  of  the  persist- 
ence with  which  we  have  begrimed  and  befouled  his 
crystal  waters !  What  a  sight  for  the  child  standing 
open-mouthed  and  wide-eyed  on  its  muddy  marge ! 
There  goes  some  great  merchantman,  light  as  a  ball  on 
the  flood  ;  there,  in  its  foaming  wake,  puffs  and  snorts 
the  steam-tug  with  its  queue  of  bulky  barges.  Here  is 
a  pleasure  boat,  slim  and  gaudy  ;  there,  a  trim  electric 
launch  ;  yonder,  beating  up  against  the  wind,  a  fleet  of 
swan-like  sailing  ships,  so  low  in  water  that  the  swift 
river  rushes  over  their  gunwales,  so  high  in  air  that  the 
tips  of  their  red-brown  sails  seem  to  touch  the  sky.  What 
an  education  !  What  an  inspiration  !  The  little  East- 
ender  starts  well  in  the  race  of  life.  The  fresh,  strong 
air,  notwithstanding  the  stenches  with  which  it  is 
impregnated,  gives  him  a  certain  healthy  impetus.  He 
starts  well.  It  is  the  travail  and  pain  of  after  years 
that  send  him  to  an  early  grave. 

I  found  no  places  of  entertainment  in  this  strange 
land  :  no  theatre,  no  concert-hall,  no  museum,  no  picture- 
gallery.  Let  the  indolent  fritterer  of  time  and  money 
ponder  this  statement.  The  brightest  parts  of  life,  those 
things  which  in  some  sort  make  up  life  in  a  very  real  sense 
of  the  word,  were  for  Mill  wall  non-existent.  When  the 
«men  from  the  forge  and  the  women  from  the  loom,  when 
the  boys  from  the  engine-room  and  the  girls  from  the 
factory,  straightened  their  aching  backs  from  the  work 
that  brought  no  pleasure,  from  the  toil  that  stunted  body 
and  soul,  they  had  no  place  in  which  to  recreate  them- 


12  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

selves  save  the  public-houses,  and  even  these,  although 
plentiful  as  blackberries  in  Brittany,  had  none  of  the 
ordinary  meretricious  glamour  about  them.  Thither, 
however,  they  might  go  if  they  would,  and  drink  as  they 
listed,  until  the  publican,  having  drained  them  of  all 
their  available^ cash,  bundled  them  into  the  street. 

From  the  very  first  the  grim  bareness  of  the  West 
Ferry  Road  struck  me  unpleasantly.  It  was  treeless, 
flowerless.  I  was  not  to  realise  until  afterwards  the 
beggarly  destitution  of  those  two  negatives.  The  naked- 
ness of  spring,  when  nature  should  be  looking  her 
freshest,  the  nakedness  of  summer,  when  nature  should 
be  at  her  best,  were  presently  to  become  physically  dis- 
tressing to  me.  When  that  point  was  reached,  I  began 
to  plague  the  Board  of  Works  to  give  us  the  seemliness 
and  comfort  of  trees.  In  vain  !  I  organised  a  big 
petition,  which  pathetically  referred  to  the  "  very  neg- 
lected and  unfinished  appearance  "  of  the  road,  and  tried 
its  best  to  touch  the  hearts  of  the  hard-hearted  gentlemen 
concerned.  Worse  than  useless  !  The  Board  was  more 
than  wooden  ;  it  was  iron.  And  to  this  day,  in  spite  of 
manifold  improvements  in  other  directions,  the  West 
Ferry  Road  is  as  treeless  as  a  desert.  But  not  as 
flowerless.  Thanks  to  our  Window  Gardening  Society, 
Millwall,  all  summer  long,  is  gay  with  colour  as  it  has 
never  been  before. 

In  spite  of  obvious  disadvantages,  however,  the  place 
was  not  without  a  certain  attractiveness.  The  sense  of 
strenuous  toil  was  manifest.  All  day  long  were  heard 
the  apoplectic  gasp  of  engines,  the  swirring  of  mighty 
wheels,  the  thud  of  steam  hammers,  the  clang  and  crash 
of  iron  against  iron,  the  roar  of  traffic. 

It  could  even  boast,  as  suggested,  a  certain  picturesque- 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  13 

ness.  Thomas  Pennant,  the  antiquary,  once  dined 
with  certain  boon  companions  at  "  The  Folly,"  a  river- 
side inn  which  of  old  was  situated  almost  opposite  to 
Greenwich  Hospital.  He  records  how  they  all  "  sat;  for 
some  hours  enjoying  the  delicious  view  of  the  river,  and 
the  moving  picture  of  a  succession  of  shipping  perpetually 
passing  and  repassing."  The  "  delicious  view  "  remains, 
commercialism  apparently  being  powerless  to  rob  us  of  it ; 
and  the  river  at  the  Isle  of  Dogs  is  still  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  sights  in  England.  Nay,  the  "  Mud  Island  " 
itself,  as  it  has  been  flippantly  called,  has  its  inspiring 
moments.  A  summer  evening  will  fling  such  colour 
over  the  length  and  breadth  of  it  as  completely  to  con- 
ceal its  monotonous  vulgarity,  even  as  a  rich  shawl  might 
hide  the  rags  and  dirt  of  a  beggar.  Once,  indeed,  I  saw 
Millwall  beautiful.  It  was  at  the  close  of  an  autumn  day. 
The  rain  had  been  falling  in  tropical  abundance  ;  the 
air  was  exquisitely  pure,  affording  a  medium  as  clear 
and  flawless  as  crystal.  A  flood  of  mellow  light  deluged 
lofty  chimney  and  lowly  roof  and  the  curving,  straggling 
causeway.  The  bowsprits,  stretched  over  the  street  like 
long,  skinny  arms,  were  shafts  of  shining  light.  For  five 
minutes  Millwall  was  an  eastern  paradise  of  purple  and 
scarlet. 

It  was  in  this  strange  land,  then,  a  land  of  many 
anomalies  and  sharp  contrasts,  that  I  was  appointed  to 
work  in  the  winter  of  1896.  On  January  i/th,  1897, 
I  held  my  first  service.  It  was  a  day  ever  to  be 
remembered.  In  the  morning  everything  passed  off 
quietly  ;  the  reason  for  which,  as  I  subsequently  dis- 
covered, was  that  most  of  the  disturbing  elements  were 
abed.  Our  congregation  consisted  of  two  women  and 
three  children.  When  the  time  for  the  collection  came,  I 


i4  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

remembered  that  we  had  no  bag,  so  I  accepted  a  kindly 
offer  of  the  next  best  thing  ;  and  1  shall  never  forget  the 
depressing  effect  of  the  pennies  contributed  as  they  fell 
rattling  into  the  borrowed  dinner-plate. 

At  the  evening  service,  things  were  not  so  peaceful. 
My  wife  was  stationed  at  the  door ;  and  when  we  were 
in  the  middle  of  the  General  Confession,  she  was 
bombarded  by  a  gang  of  lads,  who  demanded  admission 
in  less  than  polite  terms. 

"  'Ere,  aiit  o'  that !  "  shouted  one. 

"  Shove  'er  over  if  she  won't  letcher  pass ! "  cried 
another. 

"  I  say,  miss,"  piped  a  third,  a  reedy  young  man  who 
appeared  to  be  the  wit  of  the  party,  "  where's  the  bloke 
with  the  night-gownd  on  ?  " 

The  joke  was  received  with  a  tornado  of  merriment, 
and  in  the  confusion  Mrs.  Free  tried  to  explain  that  the 
room  was  open  to  all  who  were  willing  to  behave  them- 
selves. But  nutshells  and  orange-peel  began  to  be 
thrown  ;  and  she,  growing  alarmed,  with  a  deft  strategic 
movement  shut  and  bolted  the  door.  Then  began  the 
sensation  of  the  evening.  Somehow  or  other  the  lads 
improvised  a  battering-ram,  and  with  this  formidable 
weapon  began  to  storm  our  citadel.  For  a  long  time 
the  attack  went  on,  incessant  and  deafening,  to  an 
accompaniment  of  hoarse  cries  and  cheers,  while  I 
steadily  pursued  my  way  through  psalms  and  prayers, 
instinctively  aware  that  if  I  showed  the  white  feather  I 
should  have  to  pay  for  it.  When,  at  length,  the  excited 
crowd  broke  into  the  building,  and  up  the  flimsy  stair- 
case, our  little  band  of  worshippers  sprang  to  their  feet 
in  dismay.  My  voice  was  inaudible,  but  I  kept  on.  I 
wanted  to  conquer,  if  possible,  by  a  surer  weapon  than 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  15 

force.  The  crowd  of  disorderly  fellows  rushed  in  upon 
us,  swarming,  as  it  seemed,  one  on  top  of  the  other,  and 
gathered  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  as  uncouth  a 
congregation  as  ever  "  assisted "  at  a  religious  service. 
There  they  betook  themselves  to  jeering  and  cheering, 
to  jocular  conversation  and  rude  remarks,  cheerfully 
cracking  nuts  and  crushing  the  shells  under  their  feet  with 
loud  reports.  I  prayed  for  Queen  and  Royal  Family,  for 
Clergy  and  People,  for  "  all  conditions  of  men  "  ;  I  offered 
"most  humble  and  hearty  thanks"  to  God  for  His 
goodness,  particularly  on  behalf  of  "  those  who  desire 
now  to  offer  up  their  praises  and  thanksgivings  for  Thy 
mercies  vouchsafed  unto  them  in  permitting  them  to 
begin  this  work  " ;  and  without  a  break  I  finisned  up 
with  the  Grace.  The  hymn  before  the  sermon  was 
terrific.  It  was  mixed  up  with  music-hall  songs,  cat- 
calls and  whistling.  But  I  went  through  the  business 
to  the  bitter  end  ;  and  sometimes  I  have  thought  that  I 
never  did  anything  requiring  more  resolution.  By  my 
sermon  register  I  find  that  I  took  no  text  that  evening, 
perhaps  a  pardonable  omission  under  the  circumstances  ; 
but  by  the  same  indisputable  authority  I  also  find  that 
on  this  soul-stirring  occasion  I  spoke  on  the  respective 
duties  of  the  clergy  and  the  laity ! 

This  was  my  first  experience  of  rowdyism  in  Mill- 
wall  ;  it  was  to  be  by  no  means  my  last.  Many,  many 
months  were  to  elapse  before  the  hostility,  of  which  it 
was  but  a  symptom,  died  a  natural  death ;  but  into 
particulars  of  that  harassing  period  I  do  not  purpose 
entering  here.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  for  a  very  long 
time  existence  was  pretty  nearly  insufferable.  Epithets 
were  flung  at  me  broadcast.  Hootings,  howlings,  roars 
of  laughter  followed  me  as  I  passed  up  and  down  the 


1 6  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

West  Ferry  Road.  The  hard  thing  about  it  all  was 
that  I  had  to  "  smile  and  smile,"  and  seem  not  to 
mind,  although  the  "  villain  "  in  me  was  crying  aloud 
for  vengeance. 

Not  that  my  experience  was  by  any  means  peculiar. 
Poor  Postlethwaite  on  one  occasion  poured  out  his 
stricken  soul  to  me  in  a  burst  of  confidence.  "  I  fright- 
ful un'appy,"  he  said,  in  his  broken  English  ;  "  my  life 
is  but  a  burden  to  me,  a  'eavy  weight  not  to  be  borne. 
I  must  get  away  if  I  am  to  live."  After  patiently 
listening  to  my  enthusiastic  schemes  for  the  improve- 
ment of  the  neighbourhood,  he  added,  "  Ah,  yes,  my 
God !  it  is  very  pretty.  So  I  thought,  per'aps,  when 
I  come  'ere.  But  all  that  is  gone.  It  is  'opeless.  We 
deal  with  an  evil  and  adulterous  generation.  Be  on 
your  guard,  or  the  East  End  will  kill  you  as  it  has  very 
nearly  killed  me." 

A  melancholy  prophecy  indeed,  but  not  without  a 
show  of  reason.  The  anxieties  of  those  early  months, 
the  hopeless  struggle  day  by  day,  the  consciousness  of 
being  strangers  in  a  strange  land,  the  toil  on  behalf 
of  a  people  who  treated  our  advances  with  suspicion 
or  wanton  hostility,  wore  the  nervous  system  thread- 
bare, until  it  seemed  at  times  as  if  the  sad  prognosti- 
cation of  old  Postlethwaite  would  come  true. 

An  example  of  what  I  mean.  For  fifteen  consecu- 
tive weeks  I  endeavoured,  single-handed — for  there  was 
not  a  man  in  the  place  to  help  me — to  form  a  lads' 
club.  I  did  everything  in  my  power  to  win  the  affection 
and  confidence  of  those  who  proposed  to  join.  I 
played  cards  with  them  ;  I  sang  songs  to  them  ;  I  made 
myself  as  far  as  possible  one  of  them.  I  might  have 
spared  myself  the  pains.  For  fifteen  consecutive  weeks 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  17 

my  club  was  broken  up  by  Jim  Skewers,  the  leader  of 
the  gang;  and  during  all  that  time  I  endured  such 
indignities,  notably  at  the  hands  of  Bill  Bluster,  a  foul- 
tongued,  handsome  young  giant  of  eighteen,  as  I  had 
not  theretofore  imagined  possible.  The  modus  operandi 
of  Jim  and  his  followers  was  characterised  by  beautiful 
simplicity.  For  half-an-hour  or  so  after  the  club  had 
opened,  all  would  go  well.  Then  a  suspicious  fore- 
gathering at  one  end  of  the  room  would  suggest  that 
mischief  was  afoot.  Sometimes  interruption  would 
come  in  the  form  of  an  ominous  shuffling  of  feet,  at 
others  in  shouting,  stamping,  singing  or  insensate  raving. 
The  action  would  move  forward  to  its  climax  with  the 
fatality  of  a  Greek  tragedy.  Voices  would  wax  louder 
and  louder,  hangings  and  crashings  more  persistent. 
I  would  affect  blindness,  deafness  ;  I  would  venture  to 
remonstrate  after  the  manner  of  the  turtle-dove ;  I 
would  try  to  take  the  fellows  in  their  humour  ;  I  would 
appeal  to  them  as  men  and  gentlemen.  All  in  vain  ! 
Shriller  and  shriller  grew  the  yells,  more  and  more 
deafening  the  stamping  and  thumping,  until  the  furni- 
ture would  leap  and  the  floor  rock,  and  the  neat,  com- 
pact gas-jets  spasmodically  stream  upwards  with  shrill 
screeching.  When  the  row  had  reached  its  climax,  a 
maddened  neighbour  would  not  infrequently  burst  in 
on  us  with  language  and  threats  of  police.  Then,  at 
last,  at  my  word  of  command  long  and  patiently  with- 
held, my  beautiful,  beautiful  club  would  withdraw, 
screaming  and  kicking  like  maniacs,  and  smashing  into 
everything  within  reach  ;  and  I  would  lock  the  door, 
put  the  key  in  my  pocket,  go  home,  and  collapse. 

I  sometimes  ask  myself,  in  these  days  of  peace  and 
comparative  prosperity,  how  it  was  possible  for  me  to  go 

C 


1 8  SEVEN   YEARS'  HARD 

on  in  the  face  of  such  discouragement ;  and  the  answer 
that  comes  to  me  is  not  so  much  that  I  had  faith  in 
God — that  goes  without  saying — as  that  I  had  faith  in 
man,  which  is  a  very  different  matter.  In  a  word,  I 
believed  in  the  essential  goodness  even  of  the  lads  who 
of  set  purpose  broke  up  my  club  every  night ;  and  in 
that  faith  I  tried  to  prove  myself  their  friend  and  the 
friend  of  their  fathers  and  mothers.  To  say  that  I  went 
out  of  my  way  to  do  this  is  to  put  the  matter  very 
mildly.  It  was  my  daily  thought,  my  nightly  dream. 
I  walked  warily,  spoke  softly,  thought  thrice  before 
acting.  Even  then  I  was  occasionally  caught  napping ; 
for  my  zeal  was  apt  to  run  away  with  me.  Nor  was  the 
disciplinary  check  that  providentially  accompanies  in- 
discretions backward  in  asserting  itself.  But  I  took 
short  sights,  tried  not  to  meet  trouble  half-way,  and 
broke  myself  in  to  endure  by  little  and  little. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  we  were  outgrowing  the 
room  in  which  our  first  services  were  held ;  and  so  an 
exodus  was  made  to  the  Women's  Settlement  then  in 
process  of  establishment  Here  the  work  was  carried 
on  under  unusual  difficulties.  The  largest  room  in  the 
building,  which  happened  to  be  on  the  first  floor,  was 
placed  at  our  disposal ;  but  no  sooner  had  we  settled 
there  than  the  district  surveyor  swooped  down  on  us, 
and  ordered  us  to  the  ground  floor.  Can  the  sympa- 
thetic reader  realise  what  this  meant  to  pioneers  who 
had  worn  themselves  out  with  "  humping "  heavy 
furniture  hither  and  thither,  and  had  just  succeeded  in 
making  their  temporary  chapel  look  decent  ? 

But  there  was  still  more  discipline  in  store  for  us. 
For  a  long  time  one  side  of  the  building  was  open  to 
the  weather,  and  all  the  available  floorspace  was  strewn 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  19 

with  bricklayers'  debris.  On  the  stairs  thick  with  dust 
sat  the  blessed  infants ;  all  over  the  building,  from 
ground-floor  to  attic,  were  poked  the  elder  scholars. 
The  difficulties  of  a  Sunday  School  superintendent's 
work  under  such  circumstances  can  be  better  imagined 
than  described.  I  was  the  Sunday  School  superintend- 
ent. And  my  poor  congregation  !  What  bad  quarters 
of  an  hour  I  have  had  in  anticipating  the  accidents  that 
never  came  to  them !  But  it  was  no  less  than  miraculous 
that  they  escaped.  Old  and  young  alike  were  obliged  to 
perform  such  acrobatic  feats  of  skill  and  daring,  in  striding 
from  beam  to  beam  of  the  unplanked  floor,  as  would  have 
taxed  the  nerves  of  the  bravest.  Once  we  had  to  go 
out  bodily  into  the  open  air.  At  another  time  we  were 
glad  enough  to  creep  into  the  shelter  of  a  disused  stable, 
where  every  Sunday  morning  I  engaged  in  a  trial  of 
vocal  strength  with  the  ostler  on  the  other  side  of  the 
partition,  he  doing  his  best  to  drown  my  voice,  and  I 
doing  my  best  to  drown  his.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  draw- 
backs, we  survived  ;  and  from  that  time  to  this,  our 
work,  both  spiritual  and  social,  has  gone  on  from  day  to 
day  without  a  single  break.  Laus  Deo  ! 

In  those  days  I  was  a  pluralist  of  the  most  hopeless 
character.  I  occupied  almost  every  official  position 
known  to  the  Church :  sacristan,  server,  reader,  district 
visitor,  Sunday  School  superintendent,  magazine  editor, 
brigade  captain,  organist,  choirmaster,  secretary  of  lads' 
club,  missioner,  priest,  and  preacher.  Nor  did  my  duties 
end  even  there.  Well  do  I  remember  pausing  in  the 
midst  of  my  work  in  the  church,  and  wondering  what 
sundry  fashionable  friends  would  think  of  me  and  my 
wife  ;  for  she  was  scrubbing  the  floor  of  the  sanctuary, 
and  I  was  nailing  down  the  carpet  in  the  choir. 

C  2 


20  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

Our  choristers  were  three  in  number,  insignificant  in 
stature,  and  ragged  in  texture.  I  will  honestly  admit 
that  they  did  not  possess  a  single  certain  note  between 
them.  To  get  the  most  accomplished  of  them  to  run 
up  the  scale  was  literally  impossible,  whilst  the  least 
accomplished  was  incapable  for  the  very  life  of  him  of 
passing  from  doh  to  ray  or  from  ray  to  doh.  Need 
I  mention  that  I  experienced  considerable  difficulty  in 
getting  these  youngsters  to  wear  surplices  ?  Like  the 
witty  young  gentleman  who  formed  one  of  the  bom- 
barding party  at  our  first  evening  service,  they  super- 
ciliously referred  to  these  ancient  vestments  as  "  night- 
gownds  "  ;  and  the  rollicking  gaiety  of  our  little  stumpy 
band  of  screamers  when  they  first  came  into  the  church 
arrayed  in  the  orthodox  white  robes,  was  a  thing  to 
impress  the  imagination  indelibly. 

The  difficulty  of  training  a  sufficient  number  of  boys 
for  the  services  was  so  grave  that  I  started  a  ladies' 
choir,  the  members  of  which  wore  a  uniform.  The 
innovation  roused  little  opposition,  and  the  improvement 
in  the  singing  was  most  marked.  Apropos  of  such 
experiments,  it  has  always  struck  me  as  curious  that 
there  should  be  so  strong  a  prejudice  against  women 
singers  in  the  Church  of  England.  If  a  woman  has  a 
voice,  why  should  she  not  use  it  in  church  ?  And  if 
she  is  permitted  to  use  it,  why  should  she  be  denied  the 
dignity  of  a  becoming  costume  ?  Some  people  seem  to 
imagine  that  there  is  a  peculiar  sacredness  about  the 
small  boy.  I  have  been  a  small  boy  myself,  and  I  "  hae 
ma  doots." 

Well,  little  by  little,  things  began  to  get  shipshape ; 
and  I  pressed  into  service,  in  one  capacity  or  another, 
everybody  associated  with  us.  These  developments 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  21 

were  not  without  their  anxieties,  for  my  helpers  used  to 
resign  office  about  once  a  month.  If  the  slightest  thing 
displeased  them,  they  handed  in  their  resignation.  If 
they  had  a  difference  with  a  fellow- worker,  they  handed 
in  their  resignation.  If  I  ventured  to  hint  ever  so 
mildly  that  there  was  room  for  improvement,  they  handed 
in  their  resignation.  They  were  in  a  perennial  condition 
of  resignation.  Gradually,  however,  we  began  to  grip  the 
interest  of  the  people ;  gradually  a  little  company  of 
workers  grew  up  around  us.  It  was  inevitable,  of  course, 
that  I  should  be  overwhelmed  with  suggestions  as  to  the 
manner  in  which  I  should  discharge  my  manifold  duties. 
One  adviser  wanted  me  to  adopt  this  method,  another 
that,  while  a  third  solemnly  suggested  a  course  equally 
removed  from  either.  Although  I  generally  felt  it  to  be 
my  bounden  duty  to  go  my  own  way,  once  or  twice  I  was 
caught.  When  Sprightly  took  the  choir  off  my  hands,  I 
was  dazzled  by  the  prospects  he  held  out.  "  You  won't 
know  it  in  six  months,"  he  said.  He  was  right — I 
didn't. 

On  October  15,  1897,  the  foundation-stone  of  the 
mission  building  was  laid  by  Lady  Margaret  Charteris  ; 
and  some  months  later,  with  real  thanksgiving,  although 
with  natural  regret  at  leaving  the  kindly  port  which  had 
sheltered  us  in  stormy  days,  we  entered  into  possession 
of  our  new  home. 

Our  difficulties,  however,  were  by  no  means  lessened  ; 
indeed,  in  some  ways  they  had  but  just  begun.  With 
larger  opportunities  came  larger  responsibilities.  Al- 
though we  now  had  a  church  for  spiritual  work  and 
rooms  for  social  work,  both  were  as  bare  as  your  hand. 
We  did  not  possess  so  much  as  a  chair  to  sit  on.  Apart 
from  my  own  stipend,  which  was  provided  by  the  East 


22  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

London  Church  Fund,  we  had  no  money.  Our  col- 
lections averaged  a  shilling  in  the  morning,  and  two 
shillings  in  the  evening.  Yet  the  need  of  money  was 
great,  and  in  one  respect  urgent.  The  piteous  faces 
which  passed  us  in  the  street,  the  voices  of  the  sick  and 
dying  calling-  as  it  were  from  their  beds,  brought  home 
to  me  my  immediate  duty.  The  altar  furniture  could 
wait ;  chairs  for  clergy  and  worshippers,  forms  for  the 
children,  could  wait :  the  sick  and  dying  could  not  wait. 
I  felt  that  some  effort  should  be  made  at  once  to  help 
them.  But  how  ?  Could  I  look  with  any  confidence  to 
the  firms  where  these  poor  sufferers  had  been  employed, 
or  where  their  husbands  and  wives,  sisters  and  brothers, 
were  still  employed  ?  I  feared  not.  With  one  or  two 
exceptions  the  firms  had  shown  themselves  niggardly 
beyond  imagination.  In  answer  to  my  urgent  appeals  I 
received  type-written  regrets — and  nothing  else.  But 
stay !  Sometimes  one  or  other  great  business  house 
condescended  to  give  reasons.  One  of  these  I  have  pre- 
served because  of  its  delicious  disingenuousness.  It 
runs  thus  : — "  We  find  it  impossible  to  help  everybody, 
so  have  decided  to  help  nobody."  0  sancta  simplicitas  ! 
Could  I  beg  of  the  West  End  with  any  hope  of  success  ? 
Again  I  had  my  doubts.  I  had  already  found  that,  for 
the  most  part,  Mayfair  has  no  dealings  with  Millwall. 
Here  and  there,  indeed,  help  is  given  to  a  poor  East 
End  church  by  a  rich  West  End  one  ;  but  it  is  help  of 
the  kind  that  the  daintily  shod  damsel  flings  to  the 
crossing-sweeper. 

With  a  woman's  ready  wit,  my  wife  hit  on  the  simple 
expedient  of  inviting  ladies  from  far  and  near  to  form 
themselves  into  a  guild,  the  object  of  which  should  be 
the  raising  of  money  for  the  sick,  the  obligation  of  which 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  23 

should  be  prayer  and  the  payment  of  a  penny  a  week. 
The  scheme  answered  admirably  :  and  for  a  long  time 
the  poor  and  suffering  were  comforted  by  the  gifts  of 
those  who  were  strangers  to  each  other  and,  for  the  most 
part,  to  us  also. 

So  the  money  began  to  flow  in,  and  gradually  the 
uncertain,  trickling  streamlet  grew  into  a  steady,  bulky 
stream.  My  work  has  never  been  more  than  tem- 
porarily hampered  for  lack  of  funds.  It  is  true  that 
entire  dependence  on  voluntary  subscriptions  suggests  a 
chronic  state  of  bankruptcy.  Yet,  strange  to  say,  the 
bankruptcy  never  comes,  the  inevitable  is  somehow 
always  staved  off. 

What  a  big,  generous  heart  the  Englishman  has, 
after  all !  The  affectionate  letters  I  have  received  from 
perfect  strangers,  and  from  many  parts  of  the  world, 
would  be  a  revelation  to  those  who  are  fond  of  lament- 
ing the  degeneracy  of  human  nature.  I  cannot  refrain 
from  quoting  a  single  message  of  goodwill  from  a 
working-man  :  "  Smoking  no  cigarettes  for  the  past 
three  weeks,  I  am  able  to  send  you  sixpence  in  stamps. 
Perhaps  some  gentleman  smoking  cigars  will  send  a 
little  more.  God  bless  you."  That  was  a  benediction 
worth  having,  and  not  less  so  because  it  was  backed  up 
by  real  self-sacrifice. 

Let  us  give  ourselves  no  airs  in  the  matter.  The 
more  thorough  we  are  in  our  work  for  humanity,  the 
more  we  shall  require  money.  Money  is  the  motive 
power  that  keeps  the  machine  going,  without  which 
the  machine  must  inevitably  stop.  The  East  End 
parson  is  like  the  engineer  of  a  ship  with  hundreds  of 
passengers  aboard  and  coal  running  short.  At  any  cost 
he  must  keep  up  steam.  An  hour's  slackness,  and  the 


24  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

craft  which  has  ridden  so  many  seas  in  safety  may 
founder  in  sight  of  land.  What  matter  if  he  occa- 
sionally condescends  to  undignified  methods  !  Surely 
here,  if  anywhere,  the  end  justifies  the  means  ;  and  if 
our  Cathedral  brethren,  from  the  security  of  their 
Cathedral  sinecures,  are  apt  at  times  to  tilt  superior 
noses  at  us,  let  them  of  their  charity  reflect  that  the 
Church  of  England  will  find  or  lose  herself,  as  the  Church 
of  the  nation,  in  the  success  or  failure  of  the  rough-and- 
tumble  methods  of  the  slum  parson. 

It  is  well-nigh  impossible  for  the  rich  West  End 
clergyman  to  understand  the  difficulties  of  his  brother 
in  the  East.  A  striking  example  of  this  occurs  to  me. 
I  once  received  a  circular,  in  which  were  set  forth  the 
views  of  two  West  End  rectors,  Dr.  Thunderbolt  and 
Mr.  Phemtra,  on  the  best  methods  of  raising  money  for 
a  certain  deservedly  popular  fund.  I  confess  to  sur- 
prise, and  even  amazement,  at  the  flourish  with  which 
these  gentlemen  announced  their  method  of  work.  "  I 
simply  organise,"  said  Dr.  Thunderbolt.  "  I  do  the 
same,"  said  Mr.  Phemtra.  Of  course,  I  was  all  agog  to 
learn  the  nature  of  the  organisation  which  produced 
results  in  four  figures,  and  found  that  Dr.  Thunderbolt's 
plan  consisted  in  distributing,  wholesale,  a  circular  letter, 
and,  retail,  a  brief  private  appeal.  Mr.  Phemtra  used 
the  printed  letter  published  by  the  fund.  What  could 
be  simpler?  What  more  effective?  Work,  and  you 
shall  receive  !  But — it  is  such  a  pity  there  are  always 
"  buts  "  in  these  cases  ! — one  could  not  help  wondering 
how  much  the  wealth  of  the  parishes  concerned  had  to 
do  with  the  extraordinary  success  of  these  very  primi- 
tive methods.  What  about  poor  parishes?  Will  the 
clergy  of  the  West  never  understand  the  awful  anxieties 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  25 

of  the  clergy  of  the  East  ?  "  We  felt  that  Dr.  Thunder- 
bolt's and  Mr.  Phemtra's  hints  were  so  excellent,  that 
they  ought  to  be  known  far  and  wide,"  benevolently 
remarked  a  distinguished  churchman.  Alas  and  alack  ! 
What,  after  all,  had  these  good  gentlemen  told  the  rank 
and  file  of  the  clergy  ?  Let  them  hear  how  we  at 
St.  Cuthbert's  collect  for  this  fund.  Posters  occupy 
prominent  positions.  Special  sermons  are  preached, 
morning,  afternoon,  and  evening.  My  wife,  who  is  an 
unusually  able  collector,  devotes  the  whole  day  to 
visiting  every  inhabitant  of  every  house  in  the  district, 
not  even  allowing  the  public-house  habitues  to  escape, 
or  the  loungers  at  the  corners.  Meals  are  snatched  as 
they  may  be ;  the  day  is  one  mighty  rush  from  morn  to 
night.  Although  one-tenth  of  the  whole  collection  is 
given  by  myself,  the  net  result  of  our  united  efforts 
averages  little  more  than  £4. 

The  slum  parson  cannot  expect  impossibilities  from 
his  congregation  in  the  way  of  money ;  but  he  gets 
something  that  his  West  End  brother  would  dearly  like 
to  get  if  he  could.  In  spite  of  the  incessant  grind  of 
their  daily  labour,  East-enders  are  most  willing  to  give 
of  the  work  of  their  hands.  It  was  this  cheerful  readi- 
ness that  made  possible  our  Church  Cleaning  League  at 
St.  Cuthbert's.  Week  by  week  this  little  band  of 
scrubbers,  sweepers,  and  polishers  are  found  at  their 
posts,  armed  with  their  weapons  of  war  ;  and  once  a 
year  a  grand  battue  is  organised,  when  every  nook  and 
cranny  of  the  church  is  raked  from  roof  to  floor.  For 
years  past  not  a  single  penny  has  been  paid  for  church 
cleaning. 

How  did  this  wonderful  League  come  into  existence  ? 
Let  the  newspaper,  that  true  friend  of  the  East  End 


26  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

parson,  answer  in  its  own  fashion.  "  Living  in  the  Isle 
of  Dogs,  on  an  unscavenged  thoroughfare,  which  he 
himself  calls  a  disgrace  to  the  metropolis,  amid  hovels 
and  factories,  evil  smells  and  uncouth  sounds,  with  an 
unendowed  church  where  the  weekly  offertory  is  £1  and 
the  weekly  expenses  £10,  the  Rev.  Richard  Free  feels 
what  it  is  to  be  well-nigh  forgotten,  while  one's  parochial 
work  has  to  live  from  hand  to  mouth.  His  flock  help 
him  by  making  contributions  in  kind,  in  place  of  the 
money  they  cannot  supply.  A  week  or  two  ago  the 
church  wanted  badly  the  spring-clean  that  had  been 
lacking  for  three  or  four  years.  There  was  no  means  of 
paying  for  it.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Free  appealed  to  the  con- 
gregation. Pails  and  soap  and  brushes  were  obtained 
from  somewhere ;  ladders  were  borrowed ;  a  colour 
manufacturer  hard  by  donated  sufficient  paint  and 
varnish ;  and  in  two  evenings  the  church  was  clean 
from  roof  to  floor.  It  was  a  volunteer  band  of  men, 
women,  and  children  who  did  it,  and  the  parson  and  his 
wife  worked  as  hard  as  any." — Morning  Leader, 
April  ist,  1901. 

The  superior  noses  are  tilted  at  a  terribly  acute 
angle,  I  fear ;  for  "  the  parson  and  his  wife  worked  as 
hard  as  any "  !  So  undignified  !  And  yet — and  yet, 
what  could  be  more  in  keeping  with  the  best  traditions 
of  our  religion  ?  The  monks  of  old  knew  well  enough 
that  work  is  prayer.  But  we,  degenerates  that  we  are, 
take  so  little  interest  in  our  spiritual  homes,  the  treasure- 
houses  of  our  best  impulses  and  holiest  thoughts,  as 
to  hand  over  their  cleansing  to  hirelings.  Christian 
churches  should  be  kept  clean  by  Christian  people,  for 
love  and  not  for  money ;  and  the  East  End  parson  who 
works  with  his  hands  has  a  message  for  his  genera- 


A  CITY  OF  DESOLATION  27 

tion,   whether    they   will    hear   or   whether    they    will 
forbear. 

So  the  work  began,  and  the  stress  and  strain  of  it.  It 
was  pioneering  pure  and  simple.  As  the  Bishop  had 
warned  me,  there  was  no  house  to  live  in.  Indeed,  so 
acute  was  the  house-famine  that  I  could  not  even  hire  a 
room  for  use  during  the  day.  We  were  obliged  to  live 
on  the  south  side  of  the  Thames,  and  frequently  on 
Sundays  crossed  and  recrossed  the  river  by  the  ferry- 
boat six  or  even  eight  times,  which,  as  it  was  mid- 
winter, was  trying  both  to  temper  and  to  constitution. 
But  strength  was  given  where  strength  was  needed  ; 
and  there  came  a  day  when  we  perceived,  to  our  un- 
speakable joy,  that  there  was  a  stirring  among  the  dry 
bones.  Friendly  interest  in  our  doings  began  to  be 
manifested,  and  I  found  myself  greeted  in  most  cordial 
fashion  by  a  dozen  people  in  as  many  yards  ;  while  as 
for  the  children,  those  little  saviours  of  the  East  End, 
they  poured  out,  as  indeed  had  been  their  wont  from  the 
beginning,  the  wealth  of  their  inexhaustible  affection. 
But  so  important  a  subject  as  the  East  End  child  must 
have  a  chapter  all  to  itself. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE    CHILDREN   OF   THE   EAST 

MY  wife  has  just  called  me  to  see  a  nearly  nude  little 
baby  boy,  whose  greatest  delight  is  to  crawl  from  his 
home  round  the  corner  to  the  open  door  of  our  house, 
and  take  possession  of  the  door-mat.  There  he  squats, 
chuckling  with  glee  at  our  playful  advances,  and  scream- 
ing remonstrance  at  his  proposed  removal.  He  is  a  lovely 
child,  fashioned  as  God  intended  he  should  be,  and 
cheerful  with  the  cheerfulness  of  perfect  health.  Arms 
and  legs  are  grubby  with  unimaginable  dirt,  acquired 
by  crawling  along  the  pavement ;  but  they  are  firm  and 
substantial  limbs  which  may  stand  him  in  good  stead 
one  of  these  days.  As  I  look  at  him,  he  seems  to  me 
typical  of  the  East  End  child  so  full  of  promise  ;  but  I 
could  weep  to  think  how  all  that  fair  promise  may  be 
blasted  long  before  manhood  is  reached,  by  those  bitter 
winds  of  adversity — painful  labour,  deadly  toil,  the  in- 
tolerable pain  of  life. 

Entirely  delightful  are  the  children  of  the  East, 
whether  immaculately  stiff  and  frizzled  in  their  Sunday 
best,  or  tattered  and  half-naked  in  their  Saturday  worst. 
What  the  East  End  would  be  without  the  children  it 
is  impossible  even  to  imagine.  Their  eagerness  and 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      29 

inquisitiveness,  their  pathetic  dependence,  their  innocence 
and  ignorance,  their  generosity,  their  lavish  affection  : 
all  these  things  are  a  perpetual  source  of  refreshing  to 
the  dispirited  worker,  and  he  cannot  picture  himself 
existing  without  them.  And  their  smiles  !  Why,  their 
smiles  are  the  most  bracing  experience  imaginable. 
One  could  not  do  without  their  smiles.  Many  a  time 
have  I  come  home,  after  a  disappointing  day  of  drudgery, 
with  this  testimony  on  my  lips  and  in  my  heart :  "  But 
for  the  children  I  should  give  up  in  despair."  Not  the 
moodiest  temper  could  resist  their  enthusiasm.  How  I 
recall  them  in  summer,  crowding  round  the  open 
window,  and  earnestly  discussing  what  we  were  having 
for  dinner.  How  I  recall  them  in  winter,  flattening 
their  noses  against  the  frosty  panes,  and  lamenting  loud- 
voiced  their  inability  to  see  more  than  the  reflection  of 
the  dancing  fire-flames.  God  bless  the  children  of  the 
East  for  the  most  fascinating  morsels  of  humanity  that 
were  ever  created  ! 

I  think  it  was  first  borne  in  upon  me  that  the  East 
End  child  is  different  from  any  other  in  the  world  when, 
as  a  Sunday  School,  we  were  fighting  for  dear  life  in 
our  temporary  home  at  the  Settlement.  Great  gaps, 
through  which  the  rain  and  the  wind  rioted  at  pleasure, 
yawned  in  the  walls.  The  dust  gathered  in  spacious 
grey  drifts  wherever  it  could  hold  together.  Thick 
layers  of  it  were  on  every  ledge ;  every  crevice  was 
crammed  with  it ;  the  floor  was  thickly  carpeted  with 
it.  When  the  wind  blew  fierce  and  strong,  which  it 
generally  did  during  school  time,  the  dust  rose  in 
choking  clouds  which  would  not  have  disgraced  the 
efforts  of  an  Arabian  whirlwind.  But  the  children  did 
not  mind.  They  sat  on  the  floor :  they  liked  the  floor. 


30  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

They  sat  on  the  dust-heaps  :  they  found  the  dust-heaps 
soft  and  warm.  They  sat  five  abreast  on  the  twenty- 
four  steps  of  the  broad  staircase,  and  screamed  with 
inarticulate  joy.  Complaints  from  indignant  mothers 
came  thick  and  fast  respecting  the  after-school  condition 
of  Sunday  frocks  and  knickerbockers  ;  but  the  children 
never  complained.  No  word  of  dissatisfaction  ever 
parted  their  lips.  They  never  lost  heart.  In  spite  of 
exposure  and  discomfort,  with  many  a  severe  cold  to 
follow,  in  spite  of  begriming  dirt  and  choking  dust,  that 
Sunday  School  of  ours  throve  apace. 

Nothing  damps  the  spirits  of  the  East  End  child  ; 
nothing  quenches  his  ardour.  Take  him  on  an  outing, 
and  while  the  day  is  still  in  its  infancy,  you  will  know 
him  through  and  through.  He  will  arrive  too  soon  ;  he 
will  arrive  in  an  impossible  costume ;  he  will  even  arrive 
breathless  and  hatless.  On  a  very  rainy  morning,  little 
Sloane  appeared  at  the  starting-place  for  one  of  our 
excursions  three  hours  before  the  advertised  time  of 
departure,  four  hours  before  the  actual  time,  and  in  the 
thinnest  imaginable  attire.  In  ten  minutes  he  was  wet 
to  the  skin,  but  he  would  not  budge.  No  tempting 
offers  of  hot  coffee,  no  warnings  of  imminent  consump- 
tion, could  move  that  boy.  He  stuck  to  his  post,  and  he 
was  rewarded  by  a  glorious  day.  Wet,  but  glorious  ! 
For  your  true  East  End  child  boggles  not  at  trifles. 
Does  the  heat  scorch  him  ?  He  holds  his  face  up  to  the 
sun  "to  get  brown."  Does  the  cold  freeze  him? 
Nothing  could  be  better,  because  he  won't  "sweat" 
when  the  races  come  on.  Does  the  rain  fall  in  a 
deluge  ?  He  gleefully  catches  the  drops  in  his  cap.  Is 
there  a  thunderstorm?  He  seriously  settles  down  for 
fifteen  seconds  to  imitate  the  fizzle  and  roar  of  it. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      31 

Deeply  religious,  too,  is  the  East  End  child.  Religion 
fascinates  him.  He  is  not  always  accurate  in  his 
description  of  what  is  sometimes  sarcastically  termed 
"ecclesiastical  millinery";  but  when  it  is  remembered 
that  many  of  his  seniors  still  confound  a  hood  with  a 
stole,  his  ignorance  in  that  direction  is  not  altogether 
surprising.  Small  boy  Trubb,  after  being  taken  to  one 
of  our  services,  went  home  with  a  weird  story  about 
myself.  "  The  genkleman,"  he  assured  his  mother, "  had 
a  frock  and  a  nightgown  on  ;  an'  he  wore  a  stockin' 
round  his  neck."  Little  errors  of  that  kind  the  East 
End  child  certainly  does  make  ;  but  his  religion  is  very 
real  to  him  all  the  same.  Indeed,  it  is  his  insatiable 
curiosity  about  everything  connected  with  spiritual 
matters  that  lands  him  in  such  difficulties.  When  the 
name  of  our  house  was  first  painted  over  the  door,  it 
excited  among  our  neighbours  the  usual  amount  of 
good-natured  chaff.  But  the  children  were  in  dead 
earnest  about  it.  They  could  not  imagine  what  it 
meant.  "  Cufbert's  Lodge,  I  make  it,"  cried  one,  after 
having  spelt  out  the  words  letter  by  letter,  back  and 
forth,  a  dozen  times  or  more.  "  Not  it ! "  retorted  his 
companion.  "  Cufbert's  ?  " — with  exceeding  scorn.  "  It's 
Cafolic  Lodge,  that's  what  it  is." 

There  is  your  East  End  child  all  over.  Anything, 
howsoever  remotely  associated  with  religion,  interests 
him,  is  meat  and  drink  to  him  ;  he  simply  cannot  leave 
it  alone.  And  his  simple  faith,  couched  as  it  invariably 
is  in  quaint  language,  is  strangely  penetrating  and 
convincing.  "  Please,  dear  God,  make  Dolly  alive 
again,"  was  Ruby  Grey's  prayer  for  her  dead  sister ; 
and  St.  Paul  himself  could  not  have  bettered  it. 

Yet,  at  the  commencement  of  my  work,  I  found  the 


32  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

children  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  prayer-book  and  of 

the  ordinary  methods  of  the  simplest  Church  service. 

They  did  not  know  when  to  sit,  when  to  stand,  when  to 

kneel.     Versicles  and  responses,  canticles  and  hymns, 

creeds  and  collects   were  all  so  much  Greek  to  them. 

These   things   they   had   to   be   taught    with    untiring 

perseverance.     But  our  labour  of  love   had  its  reward 

within  a  couple  of  years  or   so  ;   for  by  that  time  the 

youngest  child  in  our  Sunday  School  knew  much  of  the 

Morning  and  Evening  Prayer  by  heart,  and  many  of 

the  elder  children  could  even  take  an  intelligent  part  in 

the  Holy  Communion.     Which  goes  to  prove  that  the 

East  End  child  is  amazingly  teachable.     You  may  not 

be  able  to  make  a  "  lady  "  or  "  gentleman  "  of  him,  using 

those  terms  in  the  accepted  and  narrow  sense,  as  the 

late  Sir  Walter  Besant  tried  to  show ;  but  if  you  catch 

him  young  enough,  you  may  make  a  God-fearing  citizen 

of  him,  which  is  an  all-round  better  thing.     In  one  way, 

indeed,  it  is  lamentable  that  religion  should  be  considered 

merely  a  matter  for  the  child ;  but  let  us  be  thankful 

for  so  much.     This  tradition,  although  no  more  than  the 

remnant   of  a   dead  faith,  may  not  impossibly  be  the 

means   of  raising   the   third   and  fourth  generation  of 

East   Enders  to   a   moral   and   spiritual   excellence  at 

present  undreamed  of. 

And,  in  this  connection,  we  must  not  forget  the  influ- 
ence of  the  missionary  child,  a  very  important  factor,  as 
every  "  worker  "  will  tell  you,  in  the  religious  life  of  the 
East  End.  Take  Nina,  for  example. 

"  And  who  'is  Nina  ?  "  interpolates  the  interested 
reader. 

Is  it  possible  that  I  have  not  yet  introduced  this 
diminutive  damsel  ?  Then  allow  me  to  do  so  at  once. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      33 

Nina,  then,  was  one  of  the  keenest  of  my  missionaries. 
Very  small,  even  for  her  age,  which  was  seven,  dark  of 
eye,  tawny  of  skin,  black  as  to  her  tangled  hair,  down 
as  to  her  stockings,  down  as  to  her  heels,  a  veritable 
gipsy  of  a  child.  She  never  wore  a  hat ;  and  although 
her  boots  were  of  that  particular  species  known  as 
"  laced,"  they  were  very  far  from  being  so,  the  laces  in- 
variably draggling  behind  her  like  comets'  tails.  Yet 
was  Nina  earnest  and  enthusiastic  beyond  imagination 
in  one  so  young.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  shining  of 
her  eyes  as  she  met  me  at  the  school-door  one  sad  after- 
noon in  mid-November.  She  held  by  the  hand  a  lump 
of  goggle-eyed  stupidity,  and  screamed  into  the  semi- 
darkness  when  I  was  yet  afar  off : 

"  'Ere  y'  are,  Mr.  Free !  This  "—she  jerked  the  little 
fat  mass  completely  off  its  feet — "  this  is  the  fourth  I've 
brought  to  Sunday  School." 

Nor  was  she  less  keen  in  trying  to  compel  her  parents 
into  the  fold.  Numberless  were  the  efforts  she  made  to 
bring  her  father  to  church  ;  and  although  she  failed,  she 
was  doggedly  determined  that  he  should  do  something 
for  religion.  So  her  vigorous  little  mind  set  to  work. 
Quite  accidentally  I  lighted  on  the  results  of  her  cogi- 
tations. "  So  your  father  was  once  a  server  ? "  I  was 
saying.  "  What  a  pity  that  he  should  have  broken  away 
so  completely  from  the  old  life !  " 

The  child's  eyes  dropped  ;  a  faint  flush  of  shame  over- 
spread her  swart  little  face.  "  He  don't  get  boozed  as 
often  as  he  used  to,"  she  said  in  timid  excuse. 

"  But  he  never  comes  to  church,  Nina." 

"  No,  an'  he  never  won't " — with  finality  ;  "  but — but 
I've  got  him — I've  got  'im  to —  "  she  caught  her  breath 
in  her  eagerness ;  her  face  was  aglow  with  excitement. 

D 


34  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  I've  got — got  'im  to — to  gimme  a  penny  for  the 
'eathen  !  " 

You  never  find  a  little  East-ender  disloyal  to  father 
or  mother,  although  he  may  be  instinctively  aware  that 
he  is  espousing  an  unworthy  cause.  On  the  contrary, 
he  will  stoutly,  even  fiercely,  defend  his  parents. 

"  Muvver  'd  come  to  church,  on'y  Jer  clo'es  is  all 
tore,"  explained  a  little  boy  who  had  done  his  unsuccess- 
ful best  to  drag  his  unwilling  parent  to  a  Sunday  evening 
service. 

"  And  your  father  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Farver  ?  Well,  farver — farver  'e  'ad  to  go  an'  buy 
pidgins  las'  Sunday." 

"  My  father  is  a  good  man,  altho'  'e  don't  go  to  no 
church,"  is  a  remark  which  I  have  heard  a  hundred 
times  over  ;  and  something  in  my  face  has  occasionally 
provoked  a  passionate  declaration,  such  as,  "Well,  'e 
don't  get  drunk  as  often  as  Mister  Smiff,  anyway." 

As  for  the  East  End  child's  affection  for  the  clergy,  it 
is  unbounded.  Let  the  man  who  has  no  love  for  children 
hesitate  before  going  to  work  in  the  East  End.  Other- 
wise he  will  have  a  bad  time  of  it.  There  the  children 
charge  you  in  the  street ;  and  you  must  be  prepared 
valiantly  to  receive  the  shock  if  you  would  retain  your 
balance  and  your  dignity.  There  they  will  slip  their 
small  hands  into  yours,  chat,  laugh,  dance  by  your  side, 
then  abruptly,  with  a  succession  of  knowing  little  nods, 
scamper  off  home  as  fast  as  their  legs  can  carry  them. 
The  shy,  sweet  glances  the  timid  ones  will  give  you  on 
your  return  from  your  yearly  holiday,  and  the  ringing 
cheers  the  bolder  spirits  will  venture  upon  on  a  similar 
occasion,  are  more  real  and  more  delightful  welcome- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST       35 

homes  than  most  people  can  boast.  But  they  would  be 
torture  to  the  man  or  woman  who  has  no  love  for 
children.  At  times,  indeed,  even  to  those  of  us  who  are 
most  devoted,  the  East  End  child's  overflowing  affection 
is  apt  to  prove  embarrassing.  One  Sunday,  after  our 
return  from  our  holiday,  my  wife  was  kneeling  in  prayer 
at  the  close  of  the  morning  service,  when  she  was  startled 
by  scores  of  clinging  little  fingers  about  her  neck,  and 
warm,  warm  kisses  on  her  cheeks.  The  interpretation  of 
these  phenomena  was  not  far  to  seek,  however.  Our 
little  folk  were  so  eager  to  greet  her  that  they  could  not 
wait  even  until  she  had  risen  from  her  knees.  That  is 
the  kind  of  thing  that  makes  life  worth  living  in  the 
East  End. 

Then  consider  the  child's  independence.  Foolish 
people  seem  to  imagine  that  "  poor  "  children  are  cring- 
ing little  parasites,  whose  offensiveness  is  only  to  be 
mitigated  by  a  liberal  supply  of  halfpence.  So  far  as 
the  East  End  is  concerned,  nothing  could  be  farther 
from  the  truth.  I  give  two  out  of  scores  of  possible 
illustrations. 

Sally  is  the  daughter  of  a  labourer  with  a  large  family. 
On  one  occasion  she  was  asked  to  take  home  in  a 
perambulator  a  little  invalid  girl  who  had  just  come  out 
of  hospital.  She  agreed  with  alacrity,  and  went  off 
with  her  charge.  When  she  returned  from  a  long  tramp 
in  the  broiling  sun,  she  was  offered  fourpence  for  her 
trouble.  To  our  consternation  she  bluntly  refused  it 
Neither  threats  nor  entreaties  would  move  her.  And 
only  when  it  was  pointed  out  to  her  that  the  money  was 
not  given  as  a  reward,  but  merely  in  order  to  cover  the 
cost  of  shoe-leather,  did  she  consent  to  accept  it — "  for 
mother." 

D   2 


36  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

Very  early  on  St.  George's  Day,  1901,  Elsie  and 
Harry  were  sent  to  Covent  Garden  to  buy  roses.  Neither 
knew  anything  of  London  ;  but,  by  carefully  following 
instructions,  they  at  length  sighted  the  market.  Alas  ! 
it  was  within  a  minute  or  two  of  closing  time.  The 
realisation  of  Jiow  much  they  had  to  do,  and  how  little 
time  they  had  to  do  it  in,  naturally  turned  their  heads. 
They  got  excited  and  loquacious.  A  passing  stranger — 
a  "  toff,"  as  I  ascertained  later — volunteered  his  assist- 
ance, laid  out  their  money  to  the  best  advantage,  and 
finally  piloted  them  to  Charing  Cross  and  saw  them  into 
the  train.  On  the  way  to  the  station,  Harry,  who  was 
much  impressed  by  the  stranger's  kindness,  began  to 
deliberate  within  himself.  Dropping  a  little  to  the  rear, 
he  signalled  to  Elsie,  and  in  a  dramatic  whisper  proposed 
what  seemed  to  him  a  suitable  acknowledgment.  Elsie 
readily  concurred,  and  forthwith  contributed  her  share. 
Then  these  two  delicious  little  originals,  hurrying  after 
their  benefactor,  gravely  thanked  him  for  the  trouble  he 
had  taken,  and  gave  him — twopence  ! 

The  roses  thus  acquired  were  publicly  sold  later  in 
the  day  at  varying  prices,  the  idea  being  to  foster  the 
patriotic  spirit.  And  thereby  hangs  another  tale.  A 
little  girl,  Hettie  Deacon  by  name,  sold  a  rose  to  a 
passer-by,  who,  apparently  touched  by  the  child's  obvious 
poverty,  gave  her  a  penny  for  herself.  Hettie  brought 
my  wife  the  price  of  the  rose,  and  was  loud  in  her 
praises  of  the  stranger's  generosity. 

"  What  could  have  happened  ?  "  thought  Mrs.  Free,  as 
she  proceeded  with  deft  fingers  to  fashion  a  buttonhole. 

"  An'  he  give  me  a  penny,"  Hettie  announced. 

"  Oh  !  so  that's  it,"  smilingly  thought  my  wife. 

"  An'  'ere  it  is ! "  cried  Hettie,  holding  out  the  coin. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      37 

"  No,  no,  child,  I  mustn't  take  it.  The  penny  is  yours 
to  do  what  you  like  with." 

Hettie  shook  her  head  in  resolute  refusal ;  and  the 
upshot  of  it  was  that  she  solemnly  deposited  the  coin 
in  the  poor-box. 

A  beautiful  example  of  the  East  End  child's  un- 
selfishness was  furnished  by  an  incident  that  occurred  in 
connection  with  our  Happy  Hour  for  Children.  At  this 
weekly  gathering  we  elect  a  "  champion,"  who  receives 
a  money  prize,  is  adorned  with  a  gorgeous  rosette,  and 
sits  in  state  on  a  throne.  Kitty  Slingsby  was  one  of  the 
Happy  Hour  children  ;  and  one  winter  she  got  to  know, 
as  children  will,  that  her  mother  was  terribly  hard  up. 
"  Never  mind,  dear ! "  said  she  ;  "  I'll  be  champion 
to-night — you  see  !  That'll  be  three  loaves,  anyhow." 
Strong  in  this  determination,  she  came  to  the  meeting, 
entered  for  the  dancing  competition,  and  danced  with 
such  ability  and  vigour  that  the  children  declared  her 
champion  as  with  one  voice.  Little  did  we  think,  as 
we  watched  the  small  shabby  figure  gyrating  on  the 
platform,  how  full  was  the  child's  heart  of  hope  and  fear. 
But  she  showed  no  sign  of  her  anxiety.  Not  until  the 
eight  pennies  were  firmly  grasped  in  her  hand  did  her 
face  relax  its  almost  grim  intensity,  and  then  she  gave  a 
little  chirrup  of  delight  like  a  vastly  contented  bird. 

At  these  Happy  Hour  gatherings  we  have  the  greatest 
difficulty  in  persuading  the  children  that  they  must  vote 
for  merit  and  nothing  else.  In  their  large-hearted 
charity,  they  will  persist  in  allowing  other  considerations 
to  weigh  with  them.  They  will  vote  a  boy  champion 
because  he  has  the  toothache,  or  a  girl  because  she  has 
been  left  in  the  fourth  standard  at  the  day  school 
while  her  companions  have  been  promoted  to  the  fifth. 


38  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

An  instance  of  this  tendency,  as  amusing  as  it  is  pathetic, 
occurs  to  me.  Connie's  father  was  out  of  work,  and 
there  was  great  distress  at  home,  the  little  ones  crying 
for  food,  and  the  parents  half-crazy  with  worry  and 
hunger.  Now  the  Happy  Hour  children  knew  of  this, 
although  I  did  not ;  and  they  manifested  the  intensest 
interest,  buzzing  like  so  many  flies,  when  Hilda  and 
Connie  stepped  upon  the  platform  to  decide  the  singing 
competition.  There  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  the 
superiority  of  Hilda's  voice.  She  sang  in  a  clear,  correct 
soprano.  Connie,  on  the  other  hand,  whose  voice  would 
have  been  inferior  at  any  time,  was  further  hindered  by 
a  severe  cold.  She  broke  down  twice,  and  at  the  best 
was  very  croaky  and  throaty.  Yet,  when  I  asked  the 
children  to  vote,  they  all  with  one  accord  shouted 
"  Connie."  I  tried  to  explain  to  them  that  they  were 
not  to  elect  the  girl  they  liked  best,  but  the  girl  who 
sang  best. 

"  We  will  put  it  to  the  vote  again,  as  I  think  you  did 
not  understand,"  I  said.  "  Now  then  !  For  Hilda  ?  " 

Not  a  single  hand  went  up. 

"  For  Connie  ?  " 

A  shoal  of  hands. 

I  remonstrated — I  expostulated — indeed,  I  began  to 
lose  my  temper.  I  said,  "  What  ?  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  Connie  sang  better  than  Hilda?  " 

Shrieks  of  "Yes." 

"  But,  my  dear  children,  Connie  broke  down  twice." 

It  was  of  no  use.  They  shouted  "  Connie "  until 
they  were  hoarse ;  they  kept  their  hands  up  until  they 
were  ready  to  cry  aloud  with  pain ;  they  stamped  and 
screamed.  It  was  "  Connie,"  and  only  "  Connie."  They 
would  not  have  Hilda  at  any  price — her  father  was 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST       39 

earning  thirty-eight  shillings  a  week  !  In  the  end  I  had 
to  give  in  ;  and  such  a  roar  of  delight  as  I  have  seldom 
heard  broke  from  those  charming  little  pagans  when 
I  handed  the  crack-voiced  Connie  the  prize  for  singing. 

"  Lov-elly  ! "  exclaimed  a  little  girl  in  the  front  row, 
who  wore  the  enraptured  look  of  a  saint.  "  Now  they'll 
have  something  to  eat." 

The  "  daily  bread  "  means  the  "  daily  bread  "  to  the 
East  End  child.  It  is  no  euphemistic  expression  for 
chicken  and  champagne.  I  know  two  little  Millwall 
laddies  who  insist  on  saying  at  their  morning  prayers, 
"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  three  loaves  on  the  table  " 
that  being  the  number  required  to  satisfy  the  family 
appetite. 

Is  it  not  sad  to  think  that  these  bright,  self-denying 
little  creatures  have  such  a  miserable  time  of  it?  Driven 
from  their  homes  by  the  sheer  discomfort  and  wretched- 
ness of  them,  they  have  nowhere  to  play  but  the  streets, 
muddy  in  winter  and  dusty  in  summer.  I  have  been 
both  pained  and  amused,  nor  could  I  say  which  feeling 
predominated,  to  observe  with  what  zest  our  boys  and 
girls  would  paddle  in  a  stinking  gutter  for  the  sheer  joy 
of  feeling  the  water  about  their  limbs.  What  Millwall 
wants  is  a  public  garden.  The  other  evening  a  deputa- 
tion of  boys  and  girls  waylaid  me  in  the  West  Ferry 
Road,  and,  with  many  apologetic  gasps  and  giggles, 
at  length  succeeded  in  urging  one  of  their  number — as 
dainty  a  morsel  of  femininity  as  ever  went  barefoot — to 
interpret  their  wishes. 

"  Mithter  Free,"  said  she,  with  the  slightest  but  most 
adorable  lisp,  "  ith  it  true  that  you  are  goin'  to  make  a 
country  for  uth  'ere  ?  " 

"  No,  little  girl,"  was   my  answer,  "  it  is   not   true  ; 


40  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

for,  although  it  has  been  my  dream  for  years  to  make 
you  a  *  country '  in  the  very  midst  of  this  place,  I  am  as 
far  from  success  as  ever." 

May  the  heart  of  some  lover  of  children  be  stirred  to 

give   the  Millwall  boys  and    girls    a    space  of  Mother 

Earth  for  ever,  where  they  may  romp  and  play  to  their 

hearts'  content,  and  build  up  robust  constitutions  for  the 

uture. 

Pretty,  witty,  quaint,  and  clever,  supremely  unself- 
ish, supremely  enthusiastic  and  unquenchably  good- 
humoured  is  the  East  End  child.  Nothing  damps  his 
spirits,  nothing  quenches  his  ardour,  except,  indeed, 
illness.  And  the  saddest  sight  in  the  world  is  the  little 
East  End  child  on  a  bed  of  sickness.  There  is  some- 
thing unnatural  about  that.  One  finds  oneself  saying, 
"  How  dare  disease  touch  anything  so  beautiful  and 
glad  !  " 

At  fourteen  the  East  End  boy  leaves  school,  and  the 
workman's  sordid  life  begins  for  him.  Ah,  the  pity  of  it ! 
Could  he  but  remain  a  boy,  and  not  become  a  little  prig 
of  a  man,  what  a  blessing  it  would  be  !  For  it  is  he  who 
understands,  it  is  he  who  loves,  it  is  he  who  prays  and 
worships — until  he  goes  to  work.  His  parents  may 
resolutely  set  their  faces  against  Christianity  in  any 
form — as,  indeed,  they  almost  invariably  do  ;  for,  in  the 
East  End,  to  be  ever  so  remotely  suspected  of  "  religion  " 
is  so  unfashionable  that  only  persons  of  exceptional 
character  dare  run  the  social  risk  ;  but  the  boy  will  stick 
to  his  church  through  thick  and  thin,  with  magnificent 
devotion — until  he  goes  to  work.  Poor  little  chap  ! 
The  moment  he  leaves  school  he  occupies  in  the  eyes  of 
his  world  the  dignity  and  authority  of  a  bread-winner. 
The  privileges  accorded  him  by  universal  consent  in  that 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      41 

capacity  are  not  of  the  highest.  He  may  become  a 
devotee  of  the  music-hall ;  but  he  may  not  attend  a 
place  of  worship.  He  is  expected  to  assume  equality 
with  everybody  ;  he  is  not  expected  to  show  respect  for 
age,  rank,  or  wisdom.  He  is  allowed  to  smoke,  drink, 
swear,  gamble ;  but  he  is  not  allowed  to  pray.  If  he 
persists  in  worshipping  and  praying,  he  must  be  pre- 
pared to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  the  martyrs.  Thence- 
forth he  will  be  a  marked  boy,  a  marked  man  ;  the 
brand  of  Christ  will  be  upon  him  ;  and  in  some  cases  his 
punishment  will  prove  greater  than  he  can  bear. 

Young  Fulleylove  was  literally  ill  for  days  because  his 
father  would  not  allow  him  to  be  baptised.  In  the  end 
he  conquered,  but  that  was  because  he  was  an  excep- 
tional lad.  The  commonplace  lad  goes  the  way  of  com- 
monplace flesh.  Although  his  inclinations  may  be 
towards  the  better  life,  the  pressure  of  public  opinion  is 
too  strong  for  him.  As  he  crosses  the  threshold  of  the 
Elementary  School  for  the  last  time,  and  swaggers  into 
the  great  world,  he  "  chucks  "  religion  for  good  and  all. 
Thereafter  his  father  fights  shy  of  him,  his  mother 
cringes  to  him,  and  he  is  equally  contemptuous  of  both. 
He  smokes  his  "  fags"  and  gulps  down  his  four-half,  with 
a  fine  scorn  of  the  established  order  of  things. 

It  is  rare  to  find  a  parent  who  realises  any  personal 
responsibility  in  the  matter.  Mrs.  Steever  was  one  day 
complaining  to  me  of  her  only  son.  It  was  the  usual 
story.  In  his  early  days  a  chorister,  a  Sunday  scholar, 
a  boy  of  prayer,  no  sooner  did  he  go  to  work — I  listened 
patiently  to  the  end  of  the  long  lamentation.  Then  I 
said,  "  Did  you  ever  set  your  boy  a  good  example  ? " 
The  question  startled  the  woman  into  sudden  conscious- 
ness of  her  shortcomings,  and  she  was  obliged  to  confess 


42  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

that  neither  she  nor  her  husband  had  made  any  profes- 
sion of  religion  for  twenty  years. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  used  to  imagine  the  boy  of 
fourteen  to  be  simple,  modest,  and  respectful.  I  was 
awakened  to  the  true  facts  of  the  case  on  Sunday,  May 
3Oth,  1897.  On  that  day  I  was  returning  from  a  ter- 
rible hour  in  the  Sunday  School,  when  I  caught  sight  of 
a  little  fellow,  the  youngest  son  of  Trammin  the  steve- 
dore, with  hands  in  pockets  and  back  propped  against  a 
wall,  smoking  with  excessive  ostentation.  My  nerves 
were  in  a  terrible  jangle  ;  my  tact  forsook  me. 

"  Dear  boy,  do  take  that  thing  out  of  your  mouth,"  I 
said. 

"  Not  me  !  I  paid  for  it  wiv  my  own  money,  money 
wot  I  worked  for  myself.  I  can  do  as  I  like  wiv  my 
own,  can't  I  ?  "  A  not  uncommon  method  of  argument, 
by-the-way,  in  more  fashionable  neighbourhoods  than 
the  East  End. 

I  saw  I  was  wrong,  and  forcibly  repressed  the 
remnant  of  my  irritation.  I  spoke  calmly  and  cheer- 
fully. I  pointed  out  the  necessity  of  self-control,  and 
tried  to  demonstrate  how  youthful  indulgence  in  little 
things  would  probably  result  in  grown-up  indulgence  in 
great  things.  In  an  evil  moment  I  wound  up  my  little 
sermon — for  such,  alas  !  it  was,  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts 
to  the  contrary — by  giving  the  lad  a  hearty  invitation 
to  come  to  church.  I  had  better  have  held  my  tongue. 
The  word  stung  him  to  the  quick.  He  forced  through 
his  nostrils  a  thin  grey  cloud,  watched  it  through 
half-closed  eyelids  as  it  melted  in  the  clear  spring  air, 
and  then,  with  immense  deliberation,  sneered.  It  was  a 
cruel  sneer  for  one  so  young,  painful  to  see  at  the  time, 
painful  to  remember  afterwards.  I  began  to  suspect 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      43 

that  I  had  entered  upon  a  hopeless  enterprise,  but  I  was 
still  game.  Placing  my  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  in 
the  way  we  learn  to  do  in  the  East  End,  I  said,  "  Don't 
you  ever  say  your  prayers,  Trammin  ?  " 

"  No,  I've  give  it  up." 

"  Now  listen  to  me.  I  say  my  prayers  ;  and  I'm  a 
man." 

"  Yus,  but  that's  your  work." 

"  Gordon,"  I  went  on  hurriedly — desperately, "  Chinese 
Gordon,  the  great  soldier,  used  to  say  his  prayers -- 
What !  Never  heard  of  Gordon  ?  Well,  Mr.  Gladstone 
— nor  of  him  either  ?  At  any  rate  you  have  heard  of 
Queen  Victoria  ?  " 

"  O,  lor' !  yus," — with  a  snigger. 

"  Well,  she's  the  greatest  lady  in  the  land,  and  one  of 
the  most  powerful  rulers  in  the  world  ;  and  yet — 
now  mark  ! — yet  she  believes  in  God,  and  she  says  her 
prayers." 

"  I  dessay,"  agreed  the  boy,  puffing  away  his  hardest  ; 
"  she's  a  woman." 

Quite  impossible,  for  the  most  part,  is  the  East  End 
lad.  It  is  not  his  fault  ;  it  is  his  misfortune.  Fourteen 
years  ago  he  started  the  race  of  life,  heavily  handi- 
capped. In  all  probability  his  mother  was  drinking 
heavily  from  the  hour  she  conceived  him  to  the  hour 
she  bore  him.  If  he  did  not  succumb  in  infancy  to  con- 
sumption of  the  bowels,  that  black  plague  of  the  East 
End,  it  was  not  her  fault.  Yet  the  neglect  of  the 
mother,  in  all  probability,  was  coddling  itself  compared 
with  that  of  the  father.  We  shall  have  to  grovel  far 
down  among  the  lower  orders  of  creation  to  find  any- 
thing quite  so  irresponsible  as  the  East  End  father 
respecting  his  offspring.  Only  when  his  little  son  or 


44  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

daughter  is  dead  does  he  begin  to  bestir  himself,  and  he 
makes  a  fine  fuss  over  its  funeral.  All  at  once  the  poor, 
wee  baby-thing  assumes  a  dignity  hitherto  utterly 
unknown  to  it ;  for  its  death  brings  to  its  thirsty  sire  a 
ten-pound  note  from  the  insurance  office. 

That  there  are  parents  in  the  East  End  who  take  the 
deepest  possible  interest  in  their  children,  lavishing  upon 
them  all  the  care  and  loving-kindness  that  one  would 
expect  of  highly  bred  people,  goes  without  saying  ;  but 
in  the  majority  of  cases  it  is  not  so.  The  irresponsibility 
of  East  End  fathers  and  mothers,  their  shameful  example, 
their  positive  discouragement  of  noble  tendencies,  go  far 
to  explain  the  precocious  depravity  of  the  East  End  boy 
and  girl.  On  hot  summer  nights  East  End  children  are 
playing  in  the  streets  until  twelve  and  one  o'clock. 
Needless  to  say,  they  find  much  to  interest  them.  Here 
a  man  is  knocking  down  a  woman  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms  ;  not  once,  but  twice,  and  thrice,  while  one  listens 
for  the  sickening  crash,  and  expects  every  moment  to  see 
the  child's  brains  bespattering  the  pavement.  There  an 
argument  between  a  couple  of  women  waxes  shriller  and 
shriller  until  the  hysterical  condition  is  reached  which 
can  find  no  outlet  but  in  the  tearing  of  hair  and  the 
blacking  of  eyes.  In  my  early  days,  as  many  as  three 
or  four  fights  would  occur  on  a  single  night  within  fifty 
yards  of  my  house.  Blood  would  flow  freely,  features 
become  disfigured  with  awful  defilement,  unutterably 
vile  language  would  be  flung  hither  and  thither  with 
shameless  recklessness  ;  and  the  children  would  press  as 
close  as  they  dared,  with  parted  lips  and  staring  eyes, 
silent,  horrified,  and  fascinated. 

Neglect  from  the  day  of  their  birth  until  they  are  able 
to  shift  for  themselves  is  the  sad  fate  of  our  little  East- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      45 

enders.  They  may  be  seen  fluttering  about  the  public- 
houses  like  moths,  attracted  by  the  light  and  warmth. 
They  may  be  seen  digging  and  delving  in  the  gutter, 
making  the  inevitable  mud-pies  over  foul  drains  and 
unconsciously  harbouring  the  germs  of  disgusting  diseases. 
Into  their  baby  ears,  as  they  play,  drift  unspeakable 
words  suggestive  of  unthinkable  thoughts.  Do  we  dare 
to  wonder  why  these  little  ones  grow  up  to  weak  and 
sickly  manhood  and  womanhood  ?  become  undisciplined, 
irresolute,  double-minded,  cursed  with  irresistible  im- 
pulses to  evil  ?  The  boy's  father  is  a  foul-mouthed 
drunkard  :  what  chance  for  the  boy  ?  The  girl's  mother 
is  a  slut,  a  strumpet :  what  chance  for  the  girl  ?  Can  a 
boy  listen  to  vile  words  and  keep  his  innocence  of  heart  ? 
Can  a  girl  see  polluting  sights  and  maintain  her  purity  of 
body  ?  Sometimes,  indeed,  the  bad  parent  deliberately 
incites  to  sin,  and  for  the  sake  of  a  few  shillings  looks 
on  unmoved  at  her  fifteen-year-old  daughter  prostituting 
her  slender  body  to  the  lust  of  a  man-beast  thrice  her 
age. 

Before  such  supreme  cruelty,  lesser  incitements  to 
evil  sink  into  insignificance,  but  must  not  be  passed 
over.  Mrs.  Cringle,  for  instance,  was  one  of  those  who 
held  her  head  high  among  her  neighbours  ;  yet  she  was 
not  ashamed,  for  the  sake  of  strong  drink,  to  pawn  and 
repawn,  week  after  week,  her  daughters'  clothes  to  their 
very  boots.  Poor,  wee  lassies !  How  often  have  they 
been  obliged  to  lie  low  the  whole  of  Sunday,  when 
their  hearts  were  yearning  for  church  and  school ! 

I  have  known  mothers,  mostly  negligently,  sometimes 
deliberately,  place  the  Sunday  dinner  at  so  late  an  hour 
as  to  make  it  impossible  for  their  children,  bolt  it  fast 
as  they  would,  to  get  to  Sunday  School  in  time.  The 


46  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

children,  bless  them  !  have  generally  solved  the  difficulty 
by  foregoing  their  dinners  altogether.  "  What !  not 
had  your  dinner  ? "  I  would  say,  catching  at  some 
chance  word. 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing,"  would  be  the  reassuring  answer. 
"  I  shall  get  tea  right  enough." 

I  have  known  mothers  jeer  at  their  daughters  when 
they  knelt  to  say  their  prayers ;  and  some  of  my  boys 
have  had  to  put  up  with  shameful  treatment  from  elder 
sisters  and  brothers,  as  well  as  from  parents,  because 
they  insisted  on  going  to  Communion.  Is  it  astonishing 
that  the  promise  of  the  child's  life  is  not  fulfilled  ?  Can 
we  wonder  that  early  environment,  lack  of  training, 
and  pernicious  example  are  too  strong  even  for  the  most 
ardent  reformers,  and  that  youthful  ruffianism  flourishes 
amain  ? 

And  I  am  naturally  led  here  to  say  a  word  about 
the  Hooligan.  Seven  years  ago  Hooliganism  abounded 
in  Millwall.  The  Millwall  Hooligans  did  not  kick  police- 
men to  death  or  murder  old  ladies  ;  they  were  not  pro- 
fessional thieves  or  cut-throats.  For  the  most  part  they 
were  loafers  ;  more  rarely,  hard-working  fellows  who, 
having  finished  their  daily  toil  and  had  their  teas,  were 
by  way  of  looking  at  life  cheerfully.  True  to  the  gre- 
garious instincts  of  their  kind,  these  young  hopefuls 
went  about  in  droves.  They  flung  lewd  or  insolent 
remarks  at  passers-by.  With  a  great  show  of  innocence 
they  blocked  the  passage  of  unwary  pedestrians,  or 
shoved  them  off  the  footway.  They  committed  petty 
larceny  when  they  got  the  chance,  gambled  secretly 
during  the  day,  and  openly  made  night  hideous  with 
their  yowlings.  Generally  they  were  successful  in  their 
defiance  of  the  authorities,  and  occasionally  they  turn- 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      47 

bled  a  policeman.  There  were,  at  times,  as  many  as 
three  or  four  gangs  of  them  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
my  house,  each  with  its  own  particular  trysting-place. 
One  gang  would  select  the  corner  of  Ingleheim  Place, 
another  the  pavement  a  dozen  yards  south  of  the  Great 
Eastern  public-house,  a  third  would  station  itself  outside 
one  or  other  of  the  most  popular  fish-shops.  Woe  to  the 
gang  that  ventured  to  trespass  upon  another's  territory ! 
Then  was  there  excitement  enough  in  the  neighbourhood 
to  keep  one  awake  the  livelong  night. 

My  very  first  efforts  were  directed  to  the  task  of 
breaking  up  these  gangs,  not  by  force,  but  by  the  simple 
expedient  of  superior  attraction.  After  waiting  for 
three  months  for  a  dwelling-house,  I  had  at  length 
secured  one.  It  was  a  terrible  old  shanty,  lacking  every 
convenience,  and  alive  with  vermin  ;  but  it  was  a  palace 
to  us  after  all  the  dreary  waiting,  and  so  it  soon  became 
to  the  boys.  Two  of  the  five  available  rooms  we  left 
unfurnished,  and  opened  them  as  reading-rooms.  The 
movement  caught  on.  There  was  little  reading,  and 
much  jocularity  ;  but  there  were  plenty  of  pictures  with 
which  to  charm  the  eye  and  excite  the  imagination.  Of 
course  we  had  "  ructions,"  but  none  of  them  of  a  very 
serious  nature,  and  some  of  the  very  lads  who  had  so 
unmercifully  stormed  us  during  our  first  service  were  as 
quiet  as  the  youngest  of  lambkins. 

On  behalf  of  those  for  whom  the  reading-room  had 
no  attractions,  I  established  sing-songs.  These  were 
held  in  our  "  drawing-room."  We  were  a  motley  crew 
of  all  ages  and  sizes.  Slim  little  lads  of  ten  sat, 
generally  on  the  floor,  cheek  by  jowl  with  tall  strapping 
fellows  of  sixteen.  We  sang  as  the  spirit  of  song 
moved  us.  The  "  men  "  who  had  left  school  puffed  at 


48  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

their  "  fags "  ;  the  boys  who  were  still  at  school  sniffed 
enviously ;  the  girls  smiled  their  sweetest  smiles,  and 
looked  (but  were  not)  as  meek  as  milk  ;  all  sang  with 
inconceivable  lustiness. 

If,  as  the  late  Sir  Walter  Besant  once  said,  "  The  East 
End  would  have  been  lost  but  for  the  Church  of 
England,"  it  is  because  the  Church  of  England  was  the 
first  to  grasp  the  idea  that  we  must  stoop  to  conquer, 
frankly  recognising  that  in  his  essence  the  Hooligan  is 
not  unnatural,  that  he  is  explicable  only  if  regarded 
as  an  abnormal  manifestation  of  a  perfectly  normal 
tendency.  For,  although  Hooliganism  may  degenerate 
into  vice,  it  is  more  likely,  by  the  very  violence  of 
it,  to  evolve  into  virtue.  It  is  so  natural,  indeed,  as  to 
be  common  to  all  classes.  The  aristocratic  Hooligan, 
the  public  school  and  university  Hooligan,  are  familiar 
figures  to  us ;  and  even  to  the  ranks  of  the  sacred 
middle  class  the  Hooligan  is  not  an  utter  stranger. 
He  is  more  disagreeably  obvious  among  the  "  masses  " 
simply  because  there  the  restraining  forces  of  law  and 
decency  are  less  potent  than  elsewhere.  But  to  suppose 
that  Hooliganism  is  the  peculiar  failing  of  one  class  of 
society  rather  than  of  another  is  to  suppose  nonsense- 
Hooliganism  is  as  natural  and  as  universal  as  breathing. 
It  is  nothing  but  rowdyism  beside  itself.  And  rowdy- 
ism is  animalism  unchecked.  And  animalism  is  an 
absolutely  necessary  quality  of  human  nature,  without 
which  we  should  either  harden  into  flints  of  practicality 
or  soften  into  sponges  of  sentiment. 

Where  is  the  Hooligan  manufactured  ?  For  the  most 
part  in  the  over-crowded  home.  Take  a  typical 
instance.  Cory  was  one  of  my  first  lads.  As  long  as 
he  remained  at  school,  all  went  well  with  him,  or  fairly 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      49 

well.  He  attended  church,  was  devoted  to  the  choir, 
took  interest  in  boyish  amusements,  and  was  a  very 
decent  fellow.  At  fourteen  came  the  daily  labour  and 
manhood.  The  lad's  heart  was  still  young  enough  to 
incline  him  to  the  company  of  "  boys " ;  but  he  was 
ashamed  of  his  weakness,  and  piously  battled  against  it. 
After  a  struggle  extending  over  eighteen  months,  he 
finally  conquered  his  youth,  threw  over  religion,  and 
became  a  supporter  of  the  walls  of  the  public-house. 

Was  this  surprising?  Let  me  ask  the  reader  to 
consider  this  lad's  life.  Up  at  five  in  the  morning,  at 
work  by  six,  he  did  not  "  knock  off"  until  five  at  night 
at  the  earliest,  and,  if  working  overtime,  not  until  nine 
or  ten.  Imagine  him,  then,  exhausted  and  begrimed  by 
his  long  day's  toil,  coming  home  shortly  after  five.  He 
goes  into  the  yard,  plunges  his  head  into  cold  water,  and 
reappears  red  and  shiny,  but  averse  to  conversation. 
He  has  to  wait  for  his  tea,  for  his  father  is  not  yet  in. 
Squatting  on  the  fender,  he  produces  a  dirty  pink  paper 
from  his  pocket,  and  for  a  few  minutes  of  blessed 
oblivion  lives  the  amazing  life  of  "  Sixteen-string  Jack." 
In  spite  of  the  mother's  plaintive  remonstrances,  his 
little  brothers  and  sisters  persist  in  pursuing  a  rough- 
and-tumble  game  on  the  floor,  and  the  noise  jars  on  the 
lad's  nerves.  But  presently  comes  the  well-known  step 
outside,  followed  by  the  head  of  the  family,  more  than 
likely  in  a  vicious  temper  and  with  a  string  of  oaths 
tumbling  from  his  lips.  In  due  course  all  are  seated  at 
table.  The  boy  crams  into  him  thick  slices  of  bread  and 
margarine,  washing  them  down  with  cupfuls  of  black 
scalding  tea  coloured  with  the  merest  suggestion  of  tinned 
"  milk " ;  the  man  eats  and  drinks  more  deliberately. 
Not  half-a-dozen  words  pass  between  father  and  son. 

E 


5o  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

The  silence  is  broken  only  by  the  clatter  of  china,  the 
quarrelling  of  the  children,  and  the  complaining  voice  of 
the  mother. 

Tea  over,  father  dons  his  cap,  lights  his  pipe,  and 
announces  his  intention  of  "  looking  round."  Mother 
knows  what  that  means.  Stifling  a  sigh,  she  glances 
pitifully  at  her  son.  But  he  has  betaken  himself  again 
to  the  fender  and  the  pink  paper,  while  the  youngsters 
resume  their  monkey -tricks  with  renewed  zest.  In  an 
evil  moment  one  of  them  cannonades  against  the  big 
brother.  He  springs  up  with  an  angry  growl,  makes  a 
grab  at  the  malefactor,  cuffs  him  soundly,  and  sends  him 
yelping  into  the  passage.  The  mother's  complaining 
voice  swells  almost  into  a  wail  of  indignation  ;  but  the 
boy  tells  her  to  "shut  up."  She  "shuts  up,"  for  she 
fears  her  son  more  than  she  fears  God.  The  sound  of 
suppressed  sobbing  comes  from  the  dark  passage.  The 
lad  glares  at  the  Dutch  clock  which  always  tells  the 
wrong  time;  and,  at  the  moment,  the  5.55  factory  bells 
ring  out  and  the  steam  whistles  begin  to  blow.  Three 
hours  yet  before  he  can  go  to  bed  !  The  room  is  stifling. 
He  thinks  longingly  of  the  choir  practice,  but  he  has 
been  successfully  jeered  out  of  that ;  then  of  the  lads' 
club,  but  he  is  afraid  of  being  laughed  at  if  he  associ- 
ates with  "  kids."  Chaps  of  his  own  age  are  hanging 
around  the  gin-palace  ;  he  will  join  them.  Perhaps 
there  will  be  some  fun  going.  He  goes  from  the  house, 
and  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred  he  goes  to 
the  devil.  It  is^but  a  step  from  the  outside  to  the  inside 
of  the  "  pub.,"  and  drink  and  companions  are  apt  to 
make  a  fellow  reckless.  Before  the  "  man,"  who  is  still 
such  a  boy,  quite  realises  what  has  happened,  he  is  one 
of  a  gang  dimly  conscious  of  something  bitterly  wrong 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST       51 

somewhere,  and  fired  with  the  single  purpose  of  making 
themselves  as  objectionable  as  possible  to  everybody. 

Overcrowding  brings  in  its  train  so  many  evils  that  it 
may  be  regarded  as  the  most  fruitful  source  of  Hooligan- 
ism. But  there  are  other  causes,  scarcely  secondary  in 
importance.  There  is  lack  of  interest  in  work.  The 
young  labourer  regards  his  work  simply  as  a  means 
of  existence.  It  is  nothing  more  to  him.  It  is  un- 
skilled, exacting,  and  incessant,  and  his  only  object  is  to 
shirk  it  as  often  and  as  much  as  possible.  Being  liable 
to  dismissal  at  a  moment's  notice,  he  drifts  into  careless 
habits.  The  enthusiasm  with  which,  before  leaving  the 
sixth  standard  and  school  for  ever,  he  looked  forward  to 
"  going  to  work  like  father,"  quickly  dwindles  and  dies. 
He  becomes  a  drudge.  Some  outlet  he  must  have  for 
his  superfluous  energy.  He  finds  it  in  rowdyism  and 
violence. 

Then  the  lad's  education  has  been  terribly  inadequate. 
Such  as  it  is,  it  has  been  almost  purely  intellectual ;  of 
the  head,  not  of  the  heart.  He  has  been  taught  to 
think,  not  to  love.  But  even  the  intellectual  side  of 
him  has  been  most  imperfectly  developed.  As  a 
"  scholar  "  he  possessed  the  merest  smattering  of  know- 
ledge ;  and  the  moment  he  left  school  he  was  cut  off 
with  absolute  completeness  from  the  only  source  of 
culture  that  was  ever  open  to  him.  In  a  year  or  two  he 
has  forgotten  all  he  ever  learnt.  He  knows  nothing  of 
the  world  in  which  he  lives ;  he  is  utterly  ignorant  of 
history,  even  of  the  history  of  his  own  country.  He  has 
never  seen  Westminster  Abbey  or  the  British  Museum, 
nor  would  he  be  particularly  interested  in  them  if  he 
had.  The  training  his  country  has  afforded  him  has 
not  improbably  excluded  such  vulgar  subjects  as 

E  2 


52  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

history,  geography,  and  grammar,  although  it  has 
instructed  him  in  the  mysteries  of  algebra  (with  the 
accent  on  the  second  syllable),  and  has  taught  him 
to  distinguish  a  stamen  from  a  pistil.  Intellectually  he 
is  all  but  dead  ;  morally  he  is  quite  dead.  If  he  wants 
to  improve  his  mind,  he  can  go  to  the  night-school ;  if 
he  wants  to  improve  his  morals,  he  can  go  to  church  or 
chapel.  But  the  chances  are  extremely  small  that  he 
desires  improvement  in  either  direction.  After  the 
severe  strain  of  the  day,  all  he  consciously  needs  is  some 
sort  of  recreation,  the  more  sensational  the  better ;  for 
every  day  it  is  becoming  more  difficult  for  him  to 
get  pleasure  out  of  right  things.  He  cannot  enjoy  a 
sincere  book  or  a  real  play.  He  reads  little,  and  that 
little  is  vicious  or  foolish.  The  "  Sixteen-string  "  book 
is  not  the  best  possible  guide  for  him ;  nor  does 
familiarity  with  crime,  by  means  of  the  halfpenny 
newspaper,  act  as  a  moral  tonic.  Occasionally  he  goes 
to  the  theatre,  but  the  theatre  is  of  the  "  variety  "  order  ; 
and  even  there  he  prefers  the  "  Vital  Spark,"  flinging  up 
her  skirts  and  disclosing  her  coloured  tights,  to  the 
biograph  show  of  Queen  Victoria's  Jubilee  or  of  the 
return  of  the  C.I.V.'s. 

Once  again.  The  gratuitous  interference  which  passes 
for  philanthropy  is  a  direct  incentive  of  Hooliganism. 
It  is  a  hard  say  ing,  but  a  true  one,  that  woman  has  had  not 
a  little  to  do  with  the  creation  of  the  Hooligan.  With 
the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  she  has  systematically 
coddled  and  pampered  young  ruffians  who  stand  in  need 
of  nothing  so  much  as  a  man's  firm  handling.  You  may 
know  at  once  the  lad  who  has  been  accustomed  to  the 
mixture  of  fearsome  anxiety  and  overweening  confidence 
which  characterises  a  woman's  dealings  with  young  men  ; 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      53 

and  you  deserve  the  prayers  of  all  good  Christians  should 
you  be  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  thrown  upon  your  hands 
a  woman's  Boys'  Club.  Sentimental  and  uneducated 
women  by  the  score,  who  are  too  weak  to  exercise  the 
mildest  authority  but  by  the  easy  method  of  tea  and 
cake,  go  down  to  the  East  End,  collect  together  a  num- 
ber of  rough  lads,  sing  and  play  to  them,  allow  them  to 
behave  with  disgraceful  violence,  and  then  beg  to  inform 
their  friends  that  they  are  "  reforming  the  lower  classes." 

Overcrowding,  then,  dislike  for  his  daily  toil,  pitiful 
incompetence,  incredible  ignorance,  low  tastes,  low 
pleasures,  and,  finally,  the  demoralising  effect  of  would- 
be  reformers  with  more  money  than  wit,  these  are  the 
materials  of  which  the  Hooligan  is  made.  With  nowhere 
to  go  and  nothing  to  do,  with  a  culture  derived  from  the 
halfpenny  newspaper,  the  penny  shocker  and  the  three- 
penny music-hall,  with  a  body  tired,  a  mind  vacant,  a 
heart  depressed,  what  wonder  if  the  poor  lad  goes  wrong 
and  becomes  in  turn  loafer,  drinker,  and  gambler  ?  What 
wonder  if,  in  view  of  his  own  half-clothed  body  and  half- 
fed  stomach,  every  well-dressed  and  well-fed  person 
seems  to  him  to  be  his  natural  enemy,  and  he  adopts  the 
only  means  known  to  him  of  giving  vent  to  his  anti- 
pathy ? 

The  redemption  of  the  Hooligan  seems,  on  the  face  of 
it,  almost  aggressively  obvious.  To  reform  him,  we 
must,  of  course,  reform  his  surroundings  ;  to  prevent  his 
creation,  we  must,  of  course,  make  the  conditions  of  his 
creation  impossible !  So  it  would  seem.  Yet  there  is 
need  of  a  word  of  warning.  Legislation  and  private 
philanthropy  can  do  little  more  than  prepare  the  way 
for  reform.  To  improve  the  Hooligan's  environment 
will  do  much,  but  it  will  not  do  all.  You  may  give  him 


54  SEVEN   YEARS'  HARD 

a  decent  house  to  live  in  ;  you  may  educate  his  mind  to 
enjoy  good  things  ;  you  may  reform  his  newspaper  and 
his  novel ;  you  may  provide  him  with  steady,  continuous 
occupation,  and  create  in  him  a  pride  in  the  work  of  his 
hands  ;  you  may  build  great  halls  for  his  physical  culture, 
and  noble  theatres  for  his  recreation  :  such  things  will 
assist  in  the  solution  of  the  problem  of  his  existence,  but 
they  will  not  solve  it.  If  the  children  of  the  East  are  to 
be  redeemed,  an  influence  greater,  nobler,  more  compre- 
hensive than  any  and  all  of  these  must  be  invoked. 

Some  of  my  readers  are  old  enough  to  remember 
what  Muscular  Christianity  of  the  last  century  was 
going  to  do  for  the  working-classes ;  and  they  have 
lived  long  enough  to  see  the  training  of  the  body,  except 
as  a  means  to  an  end,  utterly  discredited.  "  Educate  !  " 
cried  the  creators  of  the  Board  Schools,  thirty  years  ago, 
"  and  the  children  will  be  saved."  And  yet  the  children 
are  far  from  being  saved  ;  are  far,  indeed,  from  wanting 
to  be  saved.  Have  we  forgotten  what  Besant's  Palace 
of  Delights  was  going  to  do  for  the  East  End,  that  East 
End  which,  for  the  majority  of  the  novelist's 
readers,  meant  a  few  acres  of  impossible  slums,  crammed 
with  impossibly  picturesque  people  at  the  point  of 
starvation,  after  the  manner  of  an  Adelphi  melodrama  ? 
But  the  Palace  of  Delights  has  not  solved  the  problem. 
Nor  would  a  hundred  Palaces  of  Delights,  so  far  as  I 
can  judge.  Yet,  men  with  a  mere  academic  acquaintance 
with  the  East  End  are  still  lauding  book-learning, 
recreation,  and  gymnastics  as  the  means  of  its  salvation. 
Nothing  could  be  more  absurd.  Taken  singly  or 
together,  these  supposed  remedies  for  the  social  sore  of 
the  East  End  are,  and  can  be,  effective  only  up  to  a 
certain  well-defined  point,  and  no  further.  For  the 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  EAST      55 

certain  redemption  of  the  Children  of  the  East  we  must 
look  elsewhere. 

Over  the  portal  of  the  Temple  of  Fortune,  in  the 
Rome  of  olden  days,  was  inscribed  the  single  word 
"  Volumnia."  She  it  was  who,  by  the  exercise  of  that 
power  for  good  with  which  every  woman  is  endowed, 
saved  Rome  from  her  own  husband.  Near  by  rose 
a  statue  of  Cornelia,  mother  of  the  Gracchi,  those 
mighty  espousers  of  the  cause  of  the  poor,  who  owed 
the  inspiration  of  their  self-sacrificing  lives  to  the  lessons 
they  had  learned  at  their  mother's  knee.  Woman  was 
the  salvation  of  ancient  Rome ;  woman  should  be  the 
salvation  of  modern  England.  As  to  woman,  wife  and 
mother,  we  may  directly  trace  the  Hooligan's  vicious- 
ness,  so  to  woman,  as  wife  and  mother,  we  have  a  right 
to  look  for  his  reformation.  For  the  animal  spirits,  which 
at  their  highest  assume  the  form  of  chivalry,  and  at  their 
lowest  that  of  ruffianism,  must  be  guided,  not  suppressed  ; 
and  the  woman's  hand  is  the  only  true  guide.  Alas ! 
that  the  East  End  mother  should  so  little  realise  her 
great  responsibility  !  At  its  root  the  spirit  of  Hooligan- 
ism is  the  spirit  of  irreverence  ;  and  there  is  nothing  so 
absolutely  irreverent  in  the  world  as  the  East  End  lad. 
To  assert  that  his  irreverence  is  directly  traceable  to  his 
lack  of  home  training  is  to  confine  oneself  to  the  strictest 
truth.  "  I  dursn't  say  a  word  to  my  son,  or  he'd  turn 
me  out  of  the  house,"  admitted  Mrs.  Tonbridge,  with  a 
flood  of  useless  tears.  And  she  is  but  one  of  thousands. 
The  influence  of  the  bad  home  lies  at  the  root  of 
Hooliganism  ;  and  if  the  bad  home  could  be  effectively 
dealt  with,  the  Hooligan  would  disappear.  Not  in  the 
building  of  Palaces  of  Delight,  but  in  the  making  of 
mothers,  lies  the  hope  of  England. 


56  SEVEN   YEARS'  HARD 

Could  the  women  of  the  East  End  be  filled  with  a 
sense  of  their  solemn  duty ;  could  they  but  be  induced 
to  teach  their  sons  the  great  truths  of  morality  as 
founded  upon  the  greater  truths  of  religion  ;  could  they 
but  breast  the  wave  of  materialism  which  threatens  to 
engulf  all  those  sanctities  of  life  which  have  made 
England  what  she  is  to-day  ;  could  they  but  learn  to 
point  from  the  law  they  attempt  to  enforce  to  the  Giver 
of  all  law,  in  a  single  decade  not  only  would  the  plague 
of  Hooliganism  be  stayed,  but  a  sweeter  and  saner  social 
order  would  be  established  in  England  than  England 
has  known  for  twenty  generations. 

Womanhood  !  There  is  the  key  to  the  difficulty ; 
there  is  the  solution  of  the  problem.  All  our  energies, 
as  Christian  workers,  should  be  directed  to  the  task  of 
creating  a  noble  idea  of  wifehood  and  motherhood  for 
the  East  End.  And  if,  in  our  little  way,  we  can  back 
up  the  woman's  influence  by  precept  and  example,  so 
much  the  better.  Then  our  clubs  and  our  classes,  and 
our  halls  and  our  churches,  and  our  up-to-date  sanita- 
tion and  our  model-dwellings,  will  prove  themselves 
effective  instruments  of  reform,  and  not,  as  they  are  to- 
day, the  hollow  mockeries  of  it. 


CHAPTER    III 

VICES 

So  much,  then,  for  the  East  End  child.  What  of  the 
child  grown  old  ?  Well,  let  us  acknowledge  at  once 
that  the  life  of  the  East-ender  is  more  or  less  a  closed 
book  to  us.  As  our  experience  of  him  increases,  our 
understanding  of  him  seems  to  decrease.  The  problem 
is  larger  than  we  anticipated  ;  more  intimate  realisation 
of  it  confounds  us.  The  East-ender's  sorrows,  his  joys, 
his  ambitions  :  what  does  the  most  experienced  know  of 
these,  save  in  the  most  superficial  way  ?  Keenly  desirous 
as  we  are  of  entering  into  the  inner  meaning  of  the  life 
of  the  toiler,  the  most  sanguine  can  boast  but  very  partial 
success.  Brotherhood  is  as  yet  too  new  a  word  ;  identity 
of  interest  has  not  yet  become  a  reality.  Nevertheless, 
the  lights  and  shades  of  the  picture  stand  out  promi- 
nently. Like  other  people,  East-enders  have  their 
virtues  and  their  vices,  their  angelical  moments  as  well 
as  their  diabolical.  Certainly  they  are  not  altogether 
bad  ;  quite  as  certainly  they  are  not  altogether  good. 

The  besetting  sin  of  the  East-ender  is  intemperance. 
The  drink  habit  is  all  but  universal.  If  a  dock  labourer 
is  invited  to  a  "beano,"  he  forthwith  begins  to  devise 
the  biggest  possible  "  booze "  at  the  highest  possible 


58  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

price.  Tell  a  factory  girl  that  you  are  going  to  take 
her  for  an  outing,  and  she  immediately  falls  a-dreaming 
of  unlimited  "  treats  "  of  port  wine.  Boys  on  a  holiday 
regard  it  as  quite  the  correct  thing  to  get  drunk.  And 
even  women  have  very  little  notion  of  a  day  in  the 
country  apart  from  the  bottle.  Nevertheless,  women 
are  not  so  very  culpable.  For  one  intoxicated  woman, 
you  will  probably  find  two  intoxicated  boys  and  three 
intoxicated  girls. 

Christmas  is  the  thankfully  acknowledged  time  for 
the  most  glorious  "  drunk  "  of  the  whole  year.  Then 
our  friend  the  working-man  will  go  to  the  public-house 
and  lay  his  golden  sovereigns  on  the  counter,  with  in- 
structions that  he  is  to  have  drink  as  long  as  the 
money  lasts.  When  he  becomes  incapable,  he  reels 
home,  or  is  carried  home,  and  "  sleeps  it  off."  On 
returning  to  consciousness,  back  he  goes  and  repeats 
the  process.  If  there  is  still  a  balance  on  his  deposit 
account,  he  will  go  at  it  again  and  again  until  it  is 
exhausted.  Many  a  man  has  five  or  six  such  bouts 
during  the  Christmas  holidays. 

Worse  still,  mere  children  of  from  thirteen  to  sixteen 
years  old  will  be  seen  in  the  open  streets,  in  the  glare  of 
the  morning,  maudlin  or  utterly  helpless.  On  Christmas 
Eve  the  factory  girl  will  draw  out  of  her  wine-club  every 
penny  she  has  been  saving  for  weeks  past,  and  will 
spend  the  whole  of  it  on  cake  (a  little)  and  liquor 
(much).  I  have  known  her  to  knock  off  work  at  one, 
and  be  dead  drunk  by  five. 

The  drink  habit,  I  repeat,  is  all  but  universal.  What 
wife  would  know  her  husband,  what  girl  her  sweetheart, 
should  he  by  any  chance  return  from  an  excursion 
sober !  To  say  nothing  of  weddings — it  is  not  unusual 


VICES 


59 


for  the  lord  of  creation  to  present  himself  at  the  altar  in 
a  fuddled  condition — the  very  funerals  are  frequently 
scenes  of  sottish  revelry,  forcibly  reminding  one  of  those 
Irish  wakes  of  which  we  used  to  read  in  our  childhood. 
Friends  are  invited  from  far  and  near  to  these  curious 
festivals ;  and  drinking,  not  infrequently  degenerating 
into  swinish  debauchery,  goes  on  far  into  the  morning. 
Kitty's  mother,  to  use  the  girl's  own  words,  "  nearly  fell 
over  with  surprise  "  at  the  sight  of  her  lord  coming  back 
rom  an  "  outing  "  as  sober  as  he  started.  The  "  outing  " 
had  been  a  particularly  trying  one,  as  he  had  been  to 
his  grandfather's  funeral ! 

Employers  of  labour  have  assured  me  that,  with  the 
best  intentions  in  the  world,  they  have  been  obliged  to 
discountenance  the  annual  "beano."  Time  was  when 
a  firm  would  send  one  of  its  junior  partners  with  the 
men  ;  but  the  disgusting  orgies  indulged  in  on  those 
occasions  rendered  the  continuance  of  the  friendly 
custom  impossible.  Which  is  a  good  example  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  working-man  works  out  his  own 
damnation. 

The  havoc  wrought  in  the  East  End  by  intemperance 
is  almost  incredible.  Mrs.  Swansdown  is  one  of  the  very 
nicest  women  I  know,  as  honest  and  clean  a  body  as 
you  could  wish  to  meet ;  yet  her  home  is  a  hell  upon 
earth.  Her  husband  is  a  drunkard.  He  spends  thirty 
shillings  a  week  in  liquor,  and  he  gives  his  wife  the 
same  amount  to  provide  food  and  clothes  for  nine 
persons,  pay  the  rent,  and  discharge  all  other  household 
expenses.  Swansdown  and  his  kind  certainly  make  pro- 
vision for  the  flesh  to  fulfil  the  lusts  thereof.  But  his 
case  is  not  peculiar.  I  have  in  my  mind  an  East  End 
working-man  who  actually  pays  a  public-house  twenty- 


60  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

four  shillings  a  week  to  supply  him  with  as  much  drink 
as  he  wants,  and  consumes  sufficient  beer  to  make  the 
average  toper  as  drunk  as  the  proverbial  lord. 

Most  East  End  women,  as  I  have  suggested,  temper 
their  inevitable  drinking  with  discretion  ;  but  there  are 
numberless  instances  in  which  wives,  so  far  from  setting 
an  example  to  their  husbands,  actually  vie  with  them  in 
their  extravagance  and  excess.  One  of  the  heaviest 
drinkers  I  ever  knew  was  Mrs.  Flappery.  For  seventeen 
years  her  husband  had  been  a  teetotaler,  but  his  example 
was  thrown  away  on  his  worser  half.  When  this  woman 
came  from  work  of  an  evening,  she  would  stand  in  the 
street  and  call  out,  "  John,  bring  me  my  bible  ! "  and 
John  would  hand  her  the  beer-jug.  The  jug  was  her 
bible,  and  drink  was  her  god.  In  spite  of  the  plentiful 
potations  in  which  she  indulged,  she  would  fuddle  her- 
self every  night  with  ale  and  whisky,  while  her  husband 
contented  himself  with  cold  water.  Patient  husband  ! 

Mrs.  Trooper  stopped  me  in  the  street  one  day. 
"  Look  here,  minister,"  said  she,  "  I'll  tell  you  the  truth. 
I'm  drunk.  Well,  that's  my  trouble.  When  I'm  sober 
I'm  as  good  a  wife  and  mother  as  ever  stepped  in  shoe- 
leather  ;  but  when  I'm  in  drink  I  neglect  everything. 
Then  I'm  a  beast.  The  drink  gets  hold  of  me;  it 
grips  me ;  I  don't  know  what  I'm  doing  ;  I  get  mad. 
I  wander  out  and  about,  dropping  into  this  pub.  and  that 
until  I'm  exhausted.  Then  I  tumble  down  where  1 
happen  to  be,  and  sleep  it  off." 

Occasionally  the  East  End  is  visited,  in  one  part  or 
another,  by  an  epidemic  of  intemperance.  A  plague  of 
this  kind  which  occurred  in  my  own  experience,  is 
merely  typical.  A  messenger  arrived  hotfoot,  pray- 
ing me  to  go  with  all  possible  speed  to  a  certain 


VICES  6 1 

street,  as  trouble  was  brewing  there.  Off  went  I,  and 
found  the  place  in  an  uproar.  Hundreds  of  people 
thronged  the  narrow  way.  Two  girls  formed  the  centre 
of  attraction,  and,  to  judge  by  obvious  signs  of  battle, 
had  been  fighting  furiously.  The  moment  I  appeared 
on  the  scene,  these  unhappy  creatures  rushed  at  me, 
and  each,  seizing  an  arm,  insisted  on  my  hearing  her 
version  of  the  story.  Eventually  they  dragged  me  into 
a  house,  plumped  me  down  between  them,  and,  in  the 
hearing  of  a  large  and  highly  edified  crowd,  argued  the 
matter  out  on  this  wise  : — 

"  I  tell  you  that  wot  I  say  is  the  solim  truth,"  de- 
clared Attie,  tugging  at  my  right  arm.  "  You're  my 
clergyman,  and  I  wouldn't  tell  you  no  lies  for  the 
world." 

"  And  /  tell  you,"  declared  Becky,  tugging  at  my  left 
arm,  "  that  she's  a  wicked  girl  to  say  so.  You're 
my  clergyman,  and  you  know  Jow  I  loves  the  truth." 

"  You  ! "  cried  Attie,  flashing  scorn  at  her  enemy. 
"  Who  are  you,  I  sh'  like  to  know.  JE's  my  clergyman, 
I  tell  you." 

"  JE's  mine,  I  say." 

"  'E's  more  my  clergyman  than  wot  he  is  yourn." 

"  Garn  !     'E's  more  mine  than  wot  he  is  yourn." 

"  I  love  Jim,"  shouted  Attie. 

"  And  so  do  I,"  shrieked  Becky. 

"  I  love  him  more  nor  wot  you  do,"  declared  Attie, 
with  deadly  calmness. 

"  Oh,  you  do,  do  you  ?  Well,  we'll  see  about  that," 
retorted  Becky,  and  began  to  roll  up  her  sleeves 
threateningly. 

"  Move  on,  there  !     Move  on,  please  !  " 

The  clear  voices  of  the  police  rose  above  the  roar  of 


62  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

the  crowd  and  the  sharp,  sibilant  duet  of  the  two 
disputants.  But  the  people  declined  to  move  on.  The 
madness  of  drink  was  on  them.  The  contagion  spread 
like  wildfire.  In  an  hour  a  dozen  men  and  women 
were  rolling  about,  singing  and  fighting.  Another  hour, 
and  the  dozen,  was  a  score.  As  the  day  waned  the 
excitement  increased,  and  when  night  closed  down  it 
was  a  night  of  shame  and  violence.  During  the  next 
two  days  the  debauch  continued,  and  on  the  fourth  day 
reached  its  climax.  Thereafter  it  rapidly  declined ;  but 
not  until  the  chief  actors  in  this  terrible  drama  of  real 
life  had  been  reduced  to  a  state  of  exhaustion,  so  that 
they  were  unable  to  crawl  to  the  public-house.  The 
orgy  left  its  mark  behind  ;  and  for  weeks  afterwards,  in 
the  general  air  of  unrest,  lassitude,  and  remorse,  there 
were  not  wanting  signs  of  the  convulsion  through  which 
the  neighbourhood  had  passed. 

I  have  used  the  word  "  remorse."  Only  those  who 
live  among  these  people  can  realise  what  they  suffer  in 
loss  of  self-respect.  For,  as  is  well  known,  the  disease 
of  intemperance  does  not  confine  its  ravages  to  the 
lowest  and  coarsest.  Victims  to  this  curse  are  to  be 
found  among  the  very  kindest  and  best.  Take,  for 
instance,  Mrs.  Bilstead.  She  is  a  good  woman,  in 
spite  of  her  failing ;  she  strives  to  do  right,  to  keep 
straight.  When  she  falls,  only  God  and  herself  know 
what  she  suffers.  Of  her  a  friend  once  used  the  word 
"  hopeless."  I  knew  better.  The  struggle  of  her  higher 
nature  with  her  lower  was  real,  and  in  the  end  prevailed  ; 
and  that  because  she  never  lost  her  sense  of  shame, 
because  the  sharpness  of  her  self-reproach  never  got 
blunted.  There  is  now  no  more  sober  woman  in  London 
than  Mrs.  Bilstead. 


VICES  63 

Quite  the  saddest  aspect  of  the  "  drink  "  question  in 
the  East  End  is  the  misery  into  which  .it  plunges  the 
child's  radiant  life.  Sylvia  looked  very  unhappy  after  a 
certain  birthday  party.  In  anticipation  that  party  had 
seemed  everything  delightful ;  in  realisation  it  appeared 
to  have  been  quite  the  reverse.  The  day  before  it, 
Sylvia's  blue  eyes  had  danced  with  joy,  and  her  comely 
mouth  had  been  wide  in  prodigal  smiles  ;  the  day  after 
it,  Sylvia's  eyes  were  heavy,  and  her  lips  tightly  closed 
as  with  pain.  Tears  were  very  near  the  surface,  so  I 
spoke  gently — 

"  You  enjoyed  your  birthday,  Sylvia  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  ;  she  was  too  full  to  speak. 

"  Why,  how  was  that  ?  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
have  such  a  good  time." 

The  child  clutched  at  the  edge  of  her  pinafore  and, 
with  averted  eyes,  began  folding  it  into  minute  pleats. 

"  And  father,  did  he  give  you  that  pretty  frock,  as  he 
promised — the  red  one,  you  know  ?  " 

The  reminiscence  was  too  bitter.  Sylvia  dropped 
her  pinafore  with  a  choking  sob,  and  lifted  to  mine  those 
heaven-blue  eyes  of  hers  swimming  in  tears.  "  Father 
got  drunk,"  she  said  firmly ,  "  horrid  drunk,  and 
never  even  wished  me  many  happy  returns."  And 
with  that  she  fled  away  like  a  stricken  deer  to  hide  the 
grief  no  mortal  eye  might  see. 

"  Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my  brothers, 
Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 

When  I  see  a  barefoot  child  in  the  East  End,  I  know 
where  his  boots  are,  and  I  know  how  his  boots  got 
there.  It  is  impossible  to  estimate  the  awful  results  of 
intemperance.  In  my  experience,  ninety-nine  out  of 


64  SEVEN  YEARS1  HARD 

every  hundred  cases  of  destitution  can  be  directly  traced 
to  this  terrible  vice.  In  fact,  intemperance  is  so 
common  in  the  East  End  that  it  overshadows  in  mere 
importance  every  other  failing.  Evidence  of  the  truth  of 
this  statement  is  to  be  found  in  the  popular  view  respect- 
ing it ;  for,  in  the  public  estimation,  all  crimes  and  faults 
whatsoever,  in  comparison  with  it,  sink  into  complete 
insignificance.  People  who  think  little  or  nothing 
of  irreligion,  neglect  of  parents,  gambling,  theft,  adultery, 
fornication,  will  resent  an  accusation  of  drunkenness 
with  intense  indignation,  their  sensitiveness  being  in 
direct  proportion  to  their  fallibility.  For  this  reason  a 
suggestion  of  intemperance  has  become  quite  the  most 
paying  method  of  slander.  This  may  be  due  in  part  to 
the  absurd  worship  of  teetotalism  ;  but  mainly,  I  think, 
it  is  a  tacit  acknowledgment  of  the  supremacy  of  this 
particular  form  of  viciousness. 

How  has  the  East  End  reached  such  a  pass  ?  The 
theological  expert  will  answer  ponderously,  "  Because  of 
the  abnormal  amount  of  original  sin  in  the  working- 
man  ! "  As  a  reason,  this  is  almost  as  logical  as  that 
actually  given  me  by  Sorrian.  He  was  not  a  bad  fellow 
in  the  main,  and  usually  he  was  as  sober  as  a  judge,  if 
not  more  so.  But  now  and  again  he  would  "break 
out " ;  and  I  noticed,  or  fancied  I  noticed,  that  he  was 
apt  to  "  break  out "  when  his  wife  was  ill.  Incredible 
as  this  seemed,  I  nevertheless  taxed  him  with  it.  To 
my  utter  amazement  he  calmly  pleaded  guilty,  adding, 
"  Well,  it's  'ard  on  a  working-man  when  his  wife's  abed. 
It  worries  'im,  an'  'e's  got  to  do  something  \ " 

Custom  has  not  a  little  to  do  with  East  End  intemper- 
ance. Mayfair  itself  does  not  grovel  to  the  goddess  of 
fashion  more  abjectly  than  Mile  End.  To  drink  is 


VICES  65 

fashionable  ;  and  in  this  respect,  as  in  so  many  others, 
East-enders  are  as  were  our  forefathers  a  century  ago. 

Beer-drinking  is  no  less  than  a  religion  to  the 
average  East-ender.  When  poor  old  Pramner  was  on 
his  death-bed,  all  his  friends  foregathered  to  witness  his 
passing. 

"  Ah !  he  can't  las'  long,"  piously  ejaculated  a 
sympathetic  relative.  "  We  'eard  his  death-rattle  las' 
night." 

"  Death-rattle  !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Wilderish,  with  a  sniff 
of  contempt.  "  The  rattle  needn't  mean  death,  not  if 
you've  got  your  wits  about  you.  Look  at  my  Lizzie. 
She  was  a  gorner,  if  you  like.  There  wasn't  much  left  of 
'er  to  pray  about,  I  can  tell  you.  Well,  we  was  sitting 
waitin',  wen  sure  enough  comes  Jer  death-rattle.  Up  I 
jumps  in  a  rare  flurry,  nea'ly  knockin'  the  beer-can  over 
— it  was  a  gallon,  an'  Jeavy, — wen  I'm  blest  if  that  there 
child  di'n't  open  'er  eyes  an'  arst  for  a  drink.  You  don't 
suppose  we  giv'  it  'er?  Not  'arf!  We  tilted  that 
gallon-can  down  her  throat,  an',  Lord  love  you !  she 
sucked  at  it  an'  sucked  at  it — well,  she  might  'a  drinked 
a  pint.  That  child  got  better  !  Ah,  nobody  knows  wot 
liquor  can  do  'cept  them  wot  'as  put  it  to  the  test. 
Death-rattle,  indeed  !  Give  me  beer  ! " 

But  neither  fashion  nor  fanaticism  of  itself  affords  an 
adequate  explanation  of  the  tyranny  of  drink.  I  make 
bold  to  say  that,  on  the  one  hand,  the  East-ender's 
isolation  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and,  on  the  other, 
the  exhausting  character  of  his  daily  labour,  make  him 
an  easy  prey  to  the  habit.  Take,  for  example,  the  Mill- 
waller.  Who  so  isolated  as  he  ?  He  is  as  far  from 
civilisation  as  pole  from  pole.  He  is  a  dweller  in  a 
land  where  it  is  impossible  even  to  take  a  walk.  He 

F 


66  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

would  be  a  brave  man  who  would  venture  on  a  stroll  for 
pleasure  in  Millwall.  The  dismal  rows  of  factories  and 
chimney-stacks  would  oppress  him  ;  the  all-embracing 
odours  would  well-nigh  suffocate  him.  Now  he  would 
be  stopped  by  the  solid  road  opening  beneath  his  feet, 
and  giving  place  to  a  sheet  of  treacherous  water ;  now 
he  would  be  forced  to  halt  with  distressing  suddenness 
before  a  red  danger-flag  and  a  headlong  trolley.  Anon 
a  mighty  engine,  with  a  score  of  heavily-laden  trucks  in 
its  wake,  would  plunge  across  his  path,  scattering  to  right 
and  left  every  living  thing  in  its  way.  This  isolation  is 
accepted  as  a  fact.  "  Now  for  London  !  "  cry  the  drivers 
of  the  diminutive  omnibus  that  more  or  less  runs  to  the 
West  India  Dock  Station.  The  fact  is  that  Millwall, 
although  an  important  part  of  the  greatest  city  in  the 
world,  is  an  outlying  primitive  village,  with  all  the  disad- 
vantages and  none  of  the  advantages  of  village  life.  And 
so,  with  modifications,  of  the  greater  part  of  East  London. 
What  could  be  more  fatal  to  the  best  that  is  in  the 
British  working-man  than  such  isolation  ? 

Nothing,  unless  it  be  his  labour.  He  must  be  an 
exceptional  man  who  can  maintain  a  high  standard 
of  living  when  he  is  forced  to  earn  his  daily  bread  by 
toil  that  degrades  the  body,  dwarfs  the  mind,  and  stunts 
the  soul.  Let  us  have  done  with  delusions  in  the  matter. 
Work,  if  it  be  ennobling,  is  the  very  breath  of  our  nostrils  ; 
but  work  which  is  merely  mechanical,  which  contains 
nothing  calculated  to  bring  out  of  us  the  best  that  is  in 
us,  is  worse  than  death.  And  the  work  of  most  East- 
enders  is  of  the  latter,  not  of  the  former  kind.  No 
wonder  they  are  resourceless  !  No  wonder  their  interest 
in  life  flags  and  fades  !  No  wonder  they  fly  to  drink  to 
find  ease,  be  it  but  for  an  hour,  from  the  pain  of  living ! 


VICES  67 

The  drink  traffic  stands  in  pressing  need  of  reform. 
At  present  the  most  dangerous  of  all  trades  is  left  in  the 
hands  of  those  whose  only  known  policy  is  one  of  money- 
making.  Personal  advantage  is  the  mainspring  of  the 
publican's  activity.  Consequently  he  is  ready  to 
condescend  to  methods  which  would  put  the  professional 
welsher  to  shame.  He  must  make  money,  honestly  if  he 
can,  dishonestly  otherwise ;  but  make  money  he  must. 
Is  it  surprising  that  he  does  not  concern  himself  with 
the  moral  condition  of  those  on  whom  he  thrives  ?  For 
very  life's  sake  he  must  have  customers,  and  he  dare  not 
be  over-scrupulous  in  his  methods  of  obtaining  them. 

Before  the  passing  of  the  "  Act  to  prevent  the 
Sale  of  Intoxicating  Liquors  to  Children,"  the  East 
End  child  was  the  paid  agent  of  the  publican.  Some 
of  our  little  ones  used  to  receive  a  penny  a  week  to 
confine  their  patronage  to  a  particular  house ;  and  at 
Christmas  there  was  threepence  for  every  child  who 
would  take  the  trouble  to  get  it.  On  the  morning  of 
Boxing  Day,  1897,  I  looked  for  the  first  time  on  the 
strangest  and  saddest  sight  imaginable.  Hundreds  of 
children,  many  of  whom  were  mere  babies,  were  fighting 
like  little  demons  to  get  into  the  public-houses.  I 
recognised  one  of  my  Sunday  scholars,  a  boy  of  six, 
known  to  Millwall  as  the  "  Admiral."  His  coin  secured, 
and  held  tightly  in  his  fist,  he  was  gallantly  breasting 
the  on-rushing  stream  of  tousled  childhood  ;  and,  as  I 
looked,  he  arrived  in  the  open,  breathless  but  triumphant. 

"  Man  give  me  frippence  !  "  he  yelled,  proudly  flourish- 
ing the  coveted  coin. 

"  What  for  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  dunno." 

"  Because  he  likes  you  ?  " 

F  2 


68  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

He  was  an  intelligent  little  chap,  with  a  red  round  face 
and  merry  brown  eyes.  He  looked  puzzled. 

"  Because  he  is  very,  very  fond  of  you  ? " 

The  Admiral  shook  his  head.  After  a  minute's 
reflection,  he  said,  "  Oh,  yus,  I  know  now.  He  give  it  to 
me  'cos  I  buy  father's  beer  of  'im." 

"  Right,"  I  declared,  oracularly.     "  And  don't  forget  it." 

The  Admiral  laid  the  matter  to  heart.  Never  again 
did  he  take  the  publican's  bribe. 

On  the  self-same  day  Sylvia  was  among  the  first  to 
secure  the  precious  prize,  but  her  small  soul  lusted  for 
more.  Twisting  her  scraggy  hair  into  a  grown-up  knot, 
she  re-entered  the  beer-shop  and,  thus  disguised,  had  no 
difficulty  in  getting  another  threepenny-piece.  Out  she 
flew,  demonstratively  holding  a  little  silver  coin  between 
the  finger  and  thumb  of  each  hand,  and  laughing  hysteri- 
cally at  her  cleverness.  A  virtuous  child  who  had  failed 
to  get  anything  informed  me  of  Sylvia's  defection.  I 
summoned  the  culprit  to  my  presence,  and,  as  I  had 
done  in  the  case  of  the  Admiral,  quietly  pointed  out  the 
degradation  and  dishonesty  of  accepting  bribes  of  the 
kind.  Sylvia  hung  her  head,  and  answered  never  a 
word.  But  she  went  back  to  the  public-house,  marched 
boldly  up  to  the  bar,  flung  both  coins  down  on  the 
counter  with  a  vehemence  that  made  the  potman  jump, 
and  fled  from  her  first  real  temptation  as  though  the 
tempter  in  very  deed  had  been  at  her  heels. 

Ah,  little  Sylvia !  Who  knows  ?  Perhaps  that  was 
the  turning-point  of  your  life. 

As  to  the  cure  of  the  drink-curse,  it  will  not  be  found 
in  universal  total  abstinence.  A  nation  of  total  abstain- 
ers is  to  me  utterly  inconceivable.  It  is  precisely  as  wise 
to  prescribe  total  abstinence  from  strong  drink  as  a  cure 


VICES  69 

for  intemperance,  as  it  would  be  to  prescribe  total 
abstinence  from  marriage  as  a  cure  for  unchastity. 
There  are  persons,  of  course,  who  have  no  control  over 
themselves  in  either  direction,  and  such  should  be  under 
scientific  treatment.  But  they  that  are  whole  have  no 
need  of  the  physician  ;  and  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  my 
Christian  profession  requires  me,  a  healthy  person,  to 
swallow  nauseating  medicines  or  undergo  painful  opera- 
tions in  order  to  "  set  an  example  "  to  a  timorous  brother 
who  will  inevitably  die  unless  the  druggist  and  the 
surgeon  have  their  way  with  him.  Why  is  temperance 
reform  so  idiotic  ? 

Young  Litchen  was  a  splendid  example  to  all 
reformers.  He  was  practical  to  the  core.  He  agreed 
with  me  that  drink  is  the  curse  of  the  working-man  ; 
"  but,"  he  added  with  conviction,  "  I  could  cure  'im."  To 
my  astonished  "  How  ?  "  he  gave  the  following  account 
of  his  great  experiment.  "  As  I  cured  my  mate.  He 
was  a  good  feller,  you  know,  but  the  drink  took  'im  by 
the  throat.  I  see  it  growin'  on  'im,  an'  growin'  on  'im, 
until  I  reckoned  it  'd  send  'im  body  an'  soul  to  the  devil. 
So  I  thinks  over  the  matter,  an'  one  night  I  nips  raund 
to  'is  'aiise,  an'  I  sez,  (  Wot !  'uggin'  the  blessid  fire  ? 
Come  an'  'ave  a  pint,  old  chap.'  He  got  up  from  his 
chair  like  a  shot,  he  did  ;  but  he  stops  with  his  cap 
'alf-way  to  his  'ead,  and  he  says,  '  No  foolin'  now,'  says 
he ;  '  I've  got  the  bloomin'  'ump,  and  I  can't  stand 
nothink.  Wot  d'you  mean  by  arstin'  me  to  drink  ?  I 
thought  you  was  a  strict  T.T.'  I  says  something  or 
other  to  pacify  'im.  He  wasn't  'ard  to  persuade,  wasn't 
Bill,  w'en  it  was  a  question  of  liquor.  Then  I  took  'im 
to  the  nearest  pub.,  and  told  'im  to  put  a  name  to  it. 
1  Four-half,'  says  he.  '  Pint  o'  four-half,  miss/  says  I, 


70  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

rappin'  with  a  quid  on  the  counter.  Bill  eyed  the  gold, 
drunk  his  pint,  and  begins  to  get  cheerful.  '  What'll 
you  have  next  ? '  says  I.  He  was  a  bit  surprised,  but 
he  said  he'd  like  a  toothful  o'  rum.  I  got  him  more'n  a 
toothful  ;  and  he  smacks  his  lips  over  it,  and  said  it 
wasn't  'arf  bad,  it  wasn't.  Arter  he'd  'ad  a  pint  o'  stout 
with  a  drop  o'  gin  in  it,  he  begins  to  get  a  bit  fuddled. 
I  give  'im  all  he  wanted  then — whisky,  brandy,  ale,  port 
wine,  gin,  every  blessid  thing  I  could  get  'old  of.  When 
he'd  'ad  enough  I  carried  'im  to  bed.  He  stayed  there 
two  days.  I  'eard  as  he  was  arstin'  for  me  on  the  Wens- 
day  ;  but  I  kep'  out  of  'is  way  for  a  fortnight,  an'  by  that 
time  he'd  cooled  down.  Wen  I  see  'im  at  last,  he 
comes  up  to  me,  an'  he  says  :  *  Mate,  your  fist.  You've 
saved  me.  I'll  never  touch  another  drop  of  the  beastly 
stuff  as  long  as  I  live.'  " 

"  And ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Not  he  !  He  can't.  The  smell  of  it,  the  sight  of  it, 
knocks  him  over.  And  I'd  undertake  to  cure  all  the 
drunkards  in  the  East  End  in  the  same  way,  if  they'd 
only  let  me." 

I  am  not  advocating  the  indiscriminate  application  of 
Litchen's  method,  although  I  think  it  could  be  used  with 
advantage  in  certain  cases.  Its  chief  value,  to  my  mind, 
lies  in  its  eminent  practicality.  If  we  are  to  succeed  in 
stamping  out  the  hideous  sin  of  intemperance,  we  must 
be  practical.  Hitherto,  we  have  allowed  ourselves  to  be 
swayed  by  sentiment  rather  than  by  common-sense. 
We  have  chosen  the  picturesque  but  impossible  way 
out  of  the  difficulty.  Because  we  have  been  too  lazy 
or  too  cowardly  to  think,  we  have  adopted  the  line 
of  least  resistance  and  have  preached  universal  total 
abstinence.  I  feel  more  and  more  convinced  that  the 
solution  of  the  drink  problem  is  not  to  be  found 


VICES  71 

there.  If  total  abstinence  must  be  advocated,  let  it 
be  frankly  advocated  as  a  temporary  expedient,  as  a 
mere  stop-gap. 

"  Shut  up  the  publi-cowses  ! "  shout  our  children,  on 
their  way  home  from  their  annual  excursion,  as  they 
pass  through  the  blaze  of  successive  gin-palaces.  But 
older  and  wiser  people  know  that  it  can't  be  done.  We 
can  no  more  shut  up  the  public-houses  than  we  can  shut 
up  the  butcher's  or  the  cheesemonger's.  The  abolition 
of  the  public-house  is  the  ambition  of  fools.  The 
public-house  is  the  workman's  club,  and,  however  badly 
managed,  will  remain  his  club  until  a  better  is  forth- 
coming. The  most  sensible  policy  is  to  attempt  to 
reform  the  public-house,  not  to  annihilate  it.  To  con- 
vert the  present  beer-shop  or  gin-palace,  with  its  moral 
and  physical  debasement,  into  a  real  "  public "  house, 
decent,  habitable,  comely,  where  pure  liquor  is  sold, 
where  there  is  no  compulsion  to  drink  too  much,  and 
where  one  may  take  one's  wife  and  children,  and 
meet  one's  clergyman  and  doctor,  this  is  the  ideal 
towards  which  every  practical  reformer  should  strive. 

Let  us  be  clear  on  the  point.  The  liquor  traffic 
cannot  be  done  away  with,  but  it  can  be  reformed  ;  and 
it  is  the  duty  of  the  State,  no  less  than  that  of  the 
Church,  to  bring  about  such  a  reformation.  We  must 
invoke  the  aid  of  the  State.  That  foolish  old  saying 
that  no  man  can  be  made  good  by  Act  of  Parliament 
owes  its  extraordinary  reputation  to  its  literal  truth  and 
moral  falsehood.  Laws  indeed  cannot  make  a  man 
good,  but  they  may  put  him  in  the  way  of  being  good  ; 
certainly  they  should  not  encourage  him  to  be  bad.  At 
present  they  do  encourage  him  to  be  bad.  When  they 
permit  the  planting  of  a  public-house  at  every  street 
corner,  to  the  direct  encouragement  of  drunkenness, 


72  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

obviously  they  are  defective  and  require  attending  to. 
And  the  craftsman  to  whom  we  naturally  look  to  execute 
the  needful  repairs  is  the  State.  There  can  be  no  need 
for  me  to  insist  that  the  law  does  encourage  drunkenness 
by  permitting  the  multiplication  of  inducements  thereto. 
Every  man  with  eyes  in  his  head  can  see  the  thing  for 
himself  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  East  End. 
There  is  at  least  one  spot  in  Millwall  whence,  without 
moving,  I  could  pitch  stones  on  to  the  roofs  of  no  less 
than  four  public-houses,  all  in  a  line ! 

And  why  should  we  not  invoke  the  aid  of  the  Church  ? 
If  the  aphorism  that  "  To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure  " 
be  true  as  well  as  trite,  there  is  no  reason  why  persons 
known  and  recognised  as  Christians  should  not  run  at 
least  one  public-house  in  every  parish  ;  and  provided 
such  a  house  were  bright  enough,  and  the  liquor  sold 
good  enough,  I  see  no  reason  why  temperance  work 
should  not  be  henceforth  as  humane  and  temperate  as  it 
has  hitherto  been  intolerant  and  merciless. 

When  we  have  said  that  the  East  End  working-man  is 
addicted  to  strong  drink,  we  have  said  all  we  need  as  to 
his  failings.  For  strong  drink  breeds  in  him  a  mighty 
progeny  of  vices,  the  first-born  of  which  is  indifference. 
He  is  not  merely  indifferent  to  religion,  as  some  sup- 
pose. Indeed,  it  would  be  hard  to  say,  always  with  noble 
exceptions,  what  he  is  interested  in,  apart  from  beer. 
He  is  reckless  of  the  welfare  of  England.  He  cares 
nothing  for  London.  He  has  no  civic  interest  of  any 
description.  He  will  not  move  a  finger  to  improve  his 
surroundings.  It  is  too  much  trouble  for  him  to  go  to 
the  poll  to  record  his  vote.  He  does  not  care  who  rules 
him,  so  long  as  he  is  let  alone  ;  he  does  not  care  who 
looks  after  his  children,  so  long  as  he  is  not  bothered 


VICES  73 

about  them.  Corporate  feeling,  whether  in  the  borough 
or  in  the  city,  in  the  family  or  in  the  church,  is  utterly 
unknown  to  him.  The  inertia  of  the  East-ender  is  a 
thing  that  cannot  be  argued  about ;  it  must  be  ex- 
perienced to  be  believed. 

On  December  20,  1900,  I  got  a  "letter"  for  an 
expensive  surgical  instrument  for  a  very  poor  woman,  a 
widow,  who  had  been  suffering  for  a  long  time  from  a 
painful  complaint.  A  week  or  two  afterwards,  the 
visitor  discovered  that  Mrs.  Shuffle — that  was  the 
woman's  name — had  not  been  to  the  hospital  to  be  fitted. 
She  got  a  sound  rating  for  her  negligence,  and  promised 
faithfully  to  go  during  the  following  week.  Next  week 
came,  and  with  it  the  indefatigable  visitor.  Still  the 
woman  had  not  been  to  the  hospital ;  indeed,  she  had 
made  no  effort  to  do  so.  The  visitor  was  disappointed, 
but  not  disheartened.  Day  after  day  she  returned  to  the 
charge.  For  nineteen  weeks  she  fought  hard,  and  in  the 
end  was  obliged  to  confess  herself  beaten.  In  May,  1901, 
five  months  after  the  "  letter  "  had  been  given,  it  was 
returned  with  the  verbal  message,  "  Mrs.  Shuffle  sez  as 
she  can't  be  bothered  about  it."  In  other  words,  this 
woman  preferred  to  go  on  suffering  indefinitely  rather 
than  take  an  hour's  journey  to  town  at  an  inclusive  cost 
of  sixpence ! 

The  East-ender,  I  say,  has  no  corporate  feeling.  In 
his  opinion,  united  effort  for  the  betterment  of  a  neigh- 
bourhood is  an  impossible  ideal.  What  heart-breaking 
attempts  I  made  in  the  early  days  to  interest  the 
Millwall  people  in  sanitation,  lighting,  housing  !  Months 
beforehand,  the  date  of  a  meeting  would  be  fixed  and 
advertised.  I  would  get  my  workers  together,  and 
arrange  for  every  house  to  be  visited.  I  would  distribute 


74  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

shoals  of  handbills.  On  the  appointed  evening  five, 
seven,  perhaps  a  dozen  people  would  turn  up,  all  in  the 
last  stage  of  apathy.  Would  they  but  rage  !  Would 
they  but  swear !  So  I  have  often  profanely  thought  to 
myself.  But  their  anger  and  oaths  were  reserved  for 
such  things  as,  a  broken  teacup  or  a  thoughtless  remark. 
They  had  no  time  to  give,  no  enthusiasm  to  spare,  for 
sanitation,  although  the  place  was  reeking  with  disease  ; 
nor  for  lighting,  although  the  streets  were  always  in 
twilight,  and  not  infrequently  in  darkness ;  nor  for 
housing,  although  many  of  their  homes  were  not  fit  for 
animals  to  herd  in.  When  we  were  trying  to  get  trees 
planted  in  the  West  Ferry  Road,  I  received  from  a  local 
tradesman,  whom  I  had  invited  to  a  meeting  for  the 
furtherance  of  the  scheme,  a  note  to  the  following  effect : 
"  Many  thanks  for  yours  on  this  matter,  but  it  does  not 
interest  me  ;  for,  by  the  time  you  obtain  it,  I  hope  to  be 
miles  away"  To  us,  such  an  exhibition  of  selfishness 
is  by  no  means  remarkable  ;  but  to  our  descendants 
a  hundred  years  hence  that  kind  of  thing  will  prove 
more  conclusively  than  many  finely  spun  theories  what 
barbarians  we  English  were  in  the  twentieth  century. 

Nowhere  is  the  East-ender's  apathy  more  pronounced 
than  in  his  treatment  of  his  own  children.  He  is 
utterly  indifferent  to  his  son's  or  his  daughter's  educa- 
tion. Even  Mrs.  Stonewright,  who  represented  the  high- 
water  mark  of  respectability,  and  appeared  to  be  devoted 
to  her  little  daughter,  sorely  disappointed  us. 

"  I  take  very  good  care  my  girl  don't  miss  her 
school,"  she  said,  piously. 

My  wife  was  much  impressed.  "  I  am  so  glad  you  set 
such  value  on  her  education,"  she  observed. 

"  Ah,  that  I  do ;  for  if  she  stays  at  'ome  she  don't 


VICES  75 

get  her  free  dinner,  which  does  her  a  world  o'  good,  to 
say  nothin'  of  the  savin'  of  expense." 

As  Board  School  manager,  I  have  tried  to  interest 
parents  in  their  children's  schooling,  with  disappointing 
results.  Once,  in  response  to  a  general  invitation  to  a 
prize  distribution,  two  women  put  in  an  appearance  in 
the  infant  school,  but  stole  away  because  none  of  their 
friends  were  there ;  and  one  woman  turned  up  in  the 
senior  school,  and  stayed,  although  she  hid  herself 
away  in  an  obscure  corner. 

There  are  boys  in  my  choir  whose  fathers  and 
mothers  have  never  had  the  curiosity  to  come  and 
see  what  they  look  like  in  their  surplices.  More 
inexplicable  even  than  that,  because  surplices  are 
associated  with  religion,  is  the  fact  that,  although  some 
of  our  young  folk  sing  and  dance  at  our  entertain- 
ments with  remarkable  skill,  their  parents,  with  rare 
exceptions,  will  not  give  so  much  as  a  threepenny- 
piece  to  see  them  perform.  I  have  in  my  mind  four 
dear  children,  the  Pouletts,  who  are  particularly  enthu- 
siastic and  clever.  Only  on  one  occasion  did  their 
father  come  to  see  them  "  go  on  the  stage,"  as  the  little 
ones  call  it,  and  then  he  was  drunk. 

That  is  the  kind  of  thing  that  breaks  the  East  End 
parson.  Like  "  Robert  Elsmere,"  he  finds  his  efforts 
thwarted  by  the  very  people  whom  he  desires  to  benefit. 
It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  he  goes  under  because  of 
the  strain  of  work.  Work  strains  him,  but  doesn't  break 
him.  Apathy  kills  him  ;  nothing  else.  Taedium  vitae, 
induced  by  the  awful  hopelessness  of  the  task  before 
him,  is  the  invariable  forerunner  of  total  collapse,  and 
has  more  to  answer  for  in  moral  as  well  as  physical 
deterioration  than  the  man  in  the  street  wots  of. 


76  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

The  apathy  of  the  East-ender  is  due  primarily  to 
strong  drink.  The  drink  habit  vitiates  the  vitality  both 
of  body  and  soul.  It  blunts  the  good,  it  sharpens  the 
evil  instincts.  It  dulls  the  sense,  seldom  very  keen,  of 
personal  responsibility.  It  keeps  a  man  poor,  and  drives 
him  to  doubtful  methods  of  getting  rich.  Thus  the  gambler 
is  made.  Gambling  is  a  lawless  method  of  repairing  the 
waste  of  extravagance,  and  there  is  no  channel  of  extrava- 
gance so  exhausting  as  the  public-house.  Not  more 
deeply  was  the  passion  for  gambling  ingrained  in  the 
owner  of  Mark  Twain's  "jumping  frog"  than  it  is  in 
the  East-ender.  It  permeates  his  whole  life,  and 
explains  as  nothing  else  can  the  "  casual "  character  of 
his  existence.  The  range  of  his  literature  is  limited,  as 
I  attempt  to  show  elsewhere;  nevertheless,  without 
even  excepting  the  papers  devoted  to  football,  the  most 
sacred  of  his  scriptures  are  papers  that  record  the 
betting  news. 

Like  most  evil  things  in  the  East  End,  the  trick  of 
gambling  is  acquired  early  in  life.  Pitch-and-toss  at  the 
street  corners  is  of  the  passionate  kind.  On  a  single 
Sunday  afternoon  a  boy  will  lose  as  much  as  five  or  six 
shillings.  It  is  difficult  for  the  police  to  cope  with  the 
evil,  even  when  they  are  anxious  to  do  so,  which  is  not 
always.  For  the  lads  have  their  scouts  at  every  corner, 
and  at  the  sotto  voce  cry  of  "  Copper!"  dissolve  as  it  were 
by  magic.  Moreover,  there  is  always  a  friendly  neigh- 
bour to  give  asylum  to  the  young  miscreants.  Doors 
left  hospitably  open  afford  a  convenient  means  of 
escape.  So  many  streets  and  alleys  are  culs-de- 
sacy  that  a  flank  movement  is  denied  the  most  con- 
summate generalship.  And  it  really  is  difficult  for 
a  policeman  with  any  dignity  to  insist,  in  the  face 


VICES  77 

of  absolute  denial  from  the  innocent-looking  tenant  of 
a  house,  that  his  quarry  is  in  hiding  under  the  family  bed. 

The  "  bookie  "  is  a  familiar  figure  among  us.  Thanks 
to  the  wobbly  condition  of  the  law  with  respect  to  the 
word  "  place,"  he  can  ply  his  nefarious  trade  under  the 
very  noses  of  the  authorities.  He  must  not  incite  to 
gamble  in  a  public-house,  under  an  archway,  or  on  a 
small  plot  of  waste  ground  ;  but,  provided  he  keeps 
moving,  he  apparently  can  do  exactly  as  he  likes  in  the 
street.  I  wonder  when  our  "  betters  "  will  teach  us,  by 
example  as  well  as  by  precept,  to  abstain  from  the  most 
shameless  vice  of  this  or  any  time ;  and  I  wonder 
when  the  law  will  cease  to  regard  with  toleration  in  a 
rich  man  a  crime  that  is  severely  punishable  in  a  poor 
one. 

The  only  antidote  to  gambling  is  to  get  severely 
lacerated.  But  it  must  be  severely.  "  Once  bitten,  twice 
shy,"  does  not  apply  to  gambling.  The  bite  that  not 
only  draws  blood,  but,  as  it  were,  skins  and  flays  the 
sinner,  leaving  him  wounded  and  ashamed  before  the 
face  of  his  enemies,  is  the  kind  of  bite  that  may,  and 
sometimes  does,  save  the  soul  alive.  More  often,  how- 
ever, the  habit,  in  spite  of  a  hundred  maulings,  sticks 
well  into  the  prime  of  life,  and  by  that  time  has  become 
second  nature. 

Scraggy  was  a  case  in  point.  Scraggy  earned  thirty 
shillings  a  week,  and  would  gamble  away  twenty  to 
twenty- two  shillings,  on  Sunday  afternoons,  at  the  inno- 
cent game  of  pitch-and-toss.  On  a  certain  evening, 
after  a  run  of  ill-luck  unusual  even  for  him,  Scraggy 
essayed  to  return  to  his  lodgings.  He  found  the  door 
locked  and  barred  against  him.  The  head  of  the  old 
lady  with  whom  he  lodged  appeared  at  a  window. 


78  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

"Lemme  in,  mother,"  murmured  Scraggy,  with 
wheedling  cheerfulness  ;  for  he  smelt  a  storm. 

"You  got  the  money  you  owe  me  for  last  week?" 
screamed  the  lady.  Not  that  she  meant  to  scream,  but 
her  voice  was  of  the  high  and  cracked  order,  and  her 
most  amiable  tones  suggested  a  threat.  The  corners  of 
Scraggy's  mouth  dropped ;  he  detected  something 
unusual  in  the  rasping,  grating  sounds. 

"  Stumped  ! "  he  answered  briefly.  Then  he  added, 
in  a  tone  that  should  have  melted  adamant,  "  Come 
along !  Lemme  in,  mother,  there's  a  good  old 
sort ! " 

"  Not  me  !  "  The  old  lady  exploded  like  a  cracker. 
"  Not  me,  John  Thomas ! " — that  was  Scraggy's  real 
name.  "  No  bite  or  bed  shall  you  have,  you  careless, 
lazy  good-for-nowt,  you,  until  you've  paid  me  for  last 
week." 

"  If  you  don't  lemme  in,"  threatened  Scraggy,  "  I'll  go 
an'  drown  myself  in  the  bloomin'  dock." 

"  Do  !  "  shrieked  the  old  lady,  and  her  voice  rose  like 
the  scream  of  a  steam  siren.  "  Do  !  And  good  rid- 
dance to  bad  rubbish  ! "  And  with  that  she  slammed 
down  the  window,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

Scraggy  slept  in  the  open  that  night.  When  morn- 
ing came,  he  washed  him  in  the  muddy  river ;  and  it 
was  with  an  empty  stomach  and  a  sad  heart  that  he 
presented  himself  at  the  dock-gates  at  five  o'clock.  A 
severe  lesson  ;  but  it  didn't  cure  Scraggy  of  gambling. 

A  few  weeks  later,  the  old  lady,  feeling  death  near, 
summoned  me  to  her  bedside,  and  requested  me  to  make 
her  will  ;  which  I  did  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  It  is 
no  breach  of  confidence  to  say  that  John  Thomas's  name 
did  not  appear  in  that  important  document.  For  the 


VICES  79 

old  lady  left  her  little  all  to  her  cousin  thrice  removed,  in 
Claude  Street. 

The  spirit  of  gambling  affects  the  East-ender's  whole 
existence.  He  lives  from  hand  to  mouth.  In  a  terribly 
literal  sense,  he  "takes  no  thought  for  the  morrow." 
Lofty  independence  with  regard  to  the  daily  toil  that 
brings  the  daily  wage  is  one  of  his  most  marked  charac- 
teristics. A  stern  word  from  a  foreman,  a  questioning 
look  from  a  manager,  are  sufficient  in  themselves  to 
induce  him  to  fling  down  his  tools  and  decamp. 
Slingsby  was  a  typical  East  End  working-man.  He  had 
excellent  places,  but  he  left  them  one  after  another  in 
the  most  reckless  fashion.  When  I  remonstrated,  he 
would  excuse  himself  thus :  "  JE  says  I  wasn't  a  doin' 
of  it  right.  I  says,  '  Yus,  I  am.'  'E  says,  '  No,  you 
ain't.'  I  says,  *  Very  well,  then,  do  it  yourself '  ;  an'  aiit 
I  come."  A  man  may  have  been  five,  ten,  twenty  years 
in  the  employ  of  one  firm.  No  matter  !  Let  any  little 
disagreement  arise,  and,  for  the  mere  satisfaction  of 
doing  as  he  likes,  he  will  throw  up  his  job.  Wife  and 
children  are  dependent  upon  him  ;  he  knows  perfectly 
well  that  his  action  may  mean  starvation  or  the  work- 
house. Still  no  matter !  Revenge  is  sweet,  even  though 
wreaked  on  one's  own  head. 

It  is  true  that  such  foolhardiness  is  by  no  means 
peculiar  to  the  East-ender,  but  it  is  also  true  that  the 
East-ender  spares  no  pains  to  act  the  part  thoroughly. 
He  lacks  foresight  in  an  incredible  degree,  and  his  trust 
in  something  turning  up  at  the  last  moment  to  stave  off 
the  inevitable  is  almost  touching  in  its  simplicity.  He 
gambles  with  his  opportunities,  never  dreaming  that 
there  will  come  a  day  when  the  opportunities  will  cease 
to  occur.  I  give  one  instance  out  of  many  hundreds. 


8o  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

Rattle,  one  of  my  lads,  lost  his  fingers  in  a  sausage 
machine,  and  was  awarded  £6$  damages.  I  suppose 
Rattle  Senior  had  never  seen  a  five-pound  note  in  his 
life.  The  magnitude  of  his  sudden  fortune  turned  his 
head.  With  delightful  irresponsibility  respecting  his 
son's  future,  he  determined  to  be  a  gentleman  for  once. 
Throwing  up  a  good  situation  with  the  lordliest  air,  he 
invited  a  motley  crew,  friends  and  neighbours,  to  share 
his  luck.  Cabs,  music-halls,  and  drink  were  the  three 
channels  through  which  the  sixty-five  golden  sovereigns, 
translated  into  twenty  times  that  number  of  silver  shil- 
lings, rushed  in  a  glittering  stream.  Young  Rattle's 
part  in  the  comedy  was  to  fetch  the  beer  and  haul  his 
father  to  bed.  But  alas !  for  the  fleeting  nature  of  all 
mundane  joys  !  A  month  later  the  Rattles  were  crying 
for  food  ;  and  when  I  offered  the  boy  a  good  situation,  he 
declined  it  on  the  ground  that  his  clothes  were  in  pawn. 
Directly  traceable  to  the  gambling  spirit  is  the  dis- 
honesty of  the  East-ender,  which  takes  the  form  rather 
of  "  picking  "  than  of  "  stealing."  Comparatively  few 
East-enders  are  big  thieves ;  but  still  fewer  are  no 
thieves  at  all.  Theft  of  the  petty  kind  is  almost  uni- 
versal. Respectable  men  think  it  no  sin  to  appropriate 
odds  and  ends  in  the  yard,  the  dock,  or  the  factory. 
Women  and  girls  will  steal  their  employers'  jam  and 
pickles.  Boys  will  take  anything  they  can  lay  hands  on. 
In  our  church  life  this  miserable  habit  used  to  be  pain- 
fully obvious.  We  never  held  a  bazaar  or  rummage 
sale  without  articles  of  more  or  less  value  mysteriously 
disappearing.  The  children  systematically  cut  the  rings 
off  the  kneeling-cushions  in  church ;  and  on  several 
occasions  the  various  charity  boxes  were  broken  open 
and  their  contents  abstracted. 


VICES  8 i 

There  are  certain  minor  failings — minor,  that  is  to 
say,  in  themselves,  but  by  no  means  in  their  results — 
about  which  a  word  or  two  should  be  said.  East-enders 
have  little  or  no  power  of  tenacity.  A  thing  taken  up 
with  burning  enthusiasm  will  be  discarded  in  a  month 
with  the  most  chilling  indifference.  New  workers  are 
apt  to  be  deceived  by  this  semblance  of  zeal,  and  to 
think  that  the  old  stagers  have  lost  their  grip.  But  they 
soon  discover  their  mistake  ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  I 
make  a  point  of  warning  my  helpers,  on  their  first 
arrival,  against  trusting  too  much  to  appearances. 

Inconstancy  of  the  kind  admits  of  a  very  simple 
explanation.  In  a  marked  degree  the  East-ender  ex- 
hibits the  defects  of  his  qualities.  His  desire  to  please 
is  so  extreme  that  he  rarely  means  what  he  says.  He 
will  readily  make  a  promise,  and  as  readily  break  it. 
He  is  too  courteous  to  refuse  a  request,  although  he 
may  be  quite  aware  of  his  utter  inability  to  comply  with 
it.  He  is  so  amiable  as  to  be  untrustworthy ;  and 
whereas  his  confidence  in  one  of  his  own  class  is  deeply 
touching,  the  consciousness  of  his  own  untrustworthiness 
begets  in  him  a  strange  distrust  of  all  others.  For 
nearly  two  years  after  I  settled  in  Millwall  I  was  re- 
garded with  obvious  suspicion.  There  seemed  to  be 
a  perpetual  interrogation  on  my  neighbours'  lips, 
"  What  on  earth  do  you  want  here  ?  "  Discussions  as  to 
why  I  had  come,  and  what  I  intended  to  do,  were  end- 
less. Prophecies  flew  back  and  forth  that  a  few  months 
at  the  very  most  would  bring  about  my  shame-faced 
departure.  And,  indeed,  at  one  time  it  seemed  as 
though  the  dogged  and  obstinate  doubt  of  the  people 
would  prove  insurmountable.  Needless  to  add,  there 
was  no  lack  of  mischief-makers  to  add  fuel  to  the  fire 

G 


82  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

of  prejudice.  Had  it  not  been  for  such,  the  opposition, 
which  took  twenty-four  months  to  overcome,  might  have 
died  down  in  six.  Perhaps !  I  am  not  sure. 

Inconsistently  enough,  on  the  other  hand,  the  East- 
ender  resents  any  lack  of  confidence  in  him.  He  is 
positively  annoyed  if  you  distrust  him.  For  example, 
the  Millwall  'bus  has  no  conductor  ;  so  it  is  customary 
for  one  passenger  to  collect  and  pay  for  all.  No  Mill- 
waller  would  think  of  quarrelling  with  this  tradition. 
To  accept  the  services  of  the  person  in  the  corner  is  a 
matter,  not  only  of  policy,  but  actually  of  conscience. 
I  once  saw  a  passenger — a  stranger,  of  course — refuse  to 
entrust  his  penny  to  a  ferocious-looking  gentleman  of 
unimpeachable  integrity,  in  a  fur  cap  and  a  spotted 
neckcloth  ;  and  the  unconcealed  contempt  with  which 
that  stranger  was  regarded  by  the  whole  omnibus  was  a 
thing  to  make  one  shiver. 

But  enough  of  fault-finding.  I  have  put  down  the  facts 
as  they  occur  to  me,  seeking  neither  to  justify  nor  to 
condemn.  How  far  the  East-ender  is  to  be  held  re- 
sponsible for  his  actions  I  hope  to  discuss  later  on. 
Meanwhile,  let  it  be  remembered  that  he  is  primitive  but 
not  innocent,  knowing  but  not  educated,  civilised  but  not 
humane. 


CHAPTER   IV 

VIRTUES 

FOREMOST  among  the  virtues  of  the  East-ender  is 
his  good-humour.  Good-humour  is  the  redeeming 
point  in  his  character,  the  salt  that  sweetens  his  very 
impurities,  the  lever  that  lifts  him  from  the  gutter  where 
he  is  prone  to  lie  all  too  complacently.  He  has  many 
failings,  many  right-down  vices  ;  but  through  them  all, 
rendering  them  almost  tolerable,  runs  that  rich  vein  of 
gold.  Man  or  woman,  the  East-ender  is  nothing  but  a 
big,  rollicking  baby.  See  him  on  his  yearly  "beano." 
See  her  on  her  annual  outing.  The  day  is  begun, 
continued,  and  ended  in  good-humour  of  the  irrepres- 
sible kind.  An  East  End  Sunday  School  excursion 
must  be  seen  to  be  believed.  To  temperaments  not  so 
richly  endowed,  the  good-humour  of  all,  from  the 
oldest  old  lady  to  the  latest  brand-new  baby,  almost 
smacks  of  the  supernatural.  And  the  home-coming ! 
What  an  outburst  of  genial  welcome  from  those  who  had 
been  slogging  in  the  oppressive  heat  of  the  factory  or 
the  kitchen  the  livelong  day!  What  an  absence  of 
self  in  the  royal  demonstration  that  awaited  us ! 
Millwall  would  be  en  fete  when  we  arrived,  and  the 
whole  population  in  the  streets.  The  long  line  of 

G  2 


84  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

brakes,  escorted  by  a  bodyguard  of  bicyclists  gleaming 
and  fantastic,  would  form  a  dazzling  stream  of  fire  as  it 
swept  down  the  West  Ferry  Road.  In  our  honour 
lights  would  burn  at  a  hundred  windows,  and  fireworks 
of  every  hue  hiss  skyward.  In  a  blaze  of  white  and 
crimson  glory  we  would  draw  up  at  St.  Cuthbert's, 
roaring  "  Sweetheart  May  "  at  the  top  of  our  voices,  and 
almost  succeeding  in  drowning  the  "  band  "  of  two  in 
their  blaring  interpretation  of  the  "  Dublin  Fusiliers." 

The  East-ender's  good-humour  exhibits  itself  as 
much  in 

"  Quips>  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles," 
as  in 

"  Nod,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles." 

That  is  to  say,  he  is  fun-loving  as  well  as  amiable. 
His  capacity  for  fun  is  enormous ;  sometimes  manifest- 
ing itself  in  sheer  waggishness,  at  other  times  in  the 
driest  of  dry  banter,  again  in  pungent  and  even  delicate 
wit.  Rarely  is  his  smartness  cruel.  When  it  is  so,  it  is 
jagged  rather  than  keen.  It  does  not  cut ;  it  tears.  His 
wit  is  easy  and  refreshingly  original.  Also,  which  is  a 
great  thing,  it  is  without  fear. 

Our  maid  Mylie  was  a  wag  quite  of  the  first  class. 
"  Master's  going  about  like  a  wet  week,"  was  her  free- 
and-easy  commentary  on  my  appearance  during  an 
attack  of  the  "  blues."  "  He  gave  me  a  look  like  a 
summons,"  said  she,  referring  to  the  facial  contortions  of 
the  baker  when  she  denounced  his  bread  as  half-baked. 
"  Don't  hang  your  clothes  on  the  floor,"  she  remarked, 
as  the  immaculate  overcoat  of  a  visitor  slid  off  the  hall- 
table  where  he  had  placed  it. 

The  children  used  to  worry  Mylie  considerably.     She 


VIRTUES  85 

was  always  threatening  them  with  the  direst  punishment 
if  they  did  not  desist  from  staring  at  her  when  she  was 
at  work.  "  Little  miserables ! "  she  would  cry,  with 
withering  scorn.  "  What  are  you  looking  at  ?  Do  you 
think  I'm  a  penny  show  ?  Be  off  with  you,  or  I'll  give 
you  what  Paddy  gave  the  drum." 

Occasionally  she  would  exhibit  a  tendency  to  topsy- 
turvy humour  of  a  somewhat  trying  kind.  She  over- 
slept herself  one  morning,  and  remarked  on  the  unusual 
occurrence,  "  The  milkman  woke  me,  bawling  out,  or  I 
should  'a'  been  down  before."  There  is  a  mental  entangle- 
ment about  that  statement  which  defies  unravelling. 

But  for  sly  and,  at  the  same  time,  keen  humour  com- 
mend me  to  the  factory  girl. 

"  I  can't  make  it  out,"  observed  a  member  of  the 
Hopeful  Club,  wrinkling  her  brows  and  biting  her  lips 
in  mental  travail. 

"  Make  what  out  ?  "  asked  Miss  Sackerby. 

A  merry  twinkle  shot  from  the  girl's  eyes.  "  I  can't 
make  out  why  the  only  laidies  as  comes  'ere  are  men- 
'aters,  widders,  and  old  maids." 

It  was  found  necessary  to  eject  a  damsel  from  the 
club  for  bad  behaviour.  When  she  got  to  the  door,  she 
screamed  out  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  "  No  wonder  you 
laidies  can  dress  as  you  do !  Where  does  all  our 
'a' pennies  go  to  ?  That's  wot  I  want  to  know.  I  call 
it  a  beastly  shaime  ! "  And  with  a  defiant  flourish  of  her 
draggled  skirts,  she  flung  out  of  the  room. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe,  at  times,  the  struggle 
between  the  natural  kind-heartedness  of  the  East-ender 
and  his  keen  sense  of  what  is  fit  and  proper.  One  of  my 
colleagues  used  to  preach  sermons  that  were  very  pro- 
tracted. "  A  nice  gentleman,"  was  the  criticism  passed 


\ 

86  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

on  him  by  a  devout  hearer.  "  A  very  nice  gentleman 
indeed  ;  but " — with  a  reminiscent  sigh — "  he  do  'ang  it 
out  so  long" 

Rascality  is  not  averse  to  an  occasional  "  quip."  Dr. 
Family  was  called  in  to  see  a  wretched  woman  in  the  last 
stages  of  disease  and  dirt.  Two  days  later  the  poor 
creature  died.  At  the  inquest  the  coroner  censured  her 
husband  for  gross  neglect.  The  fellow  lowered  his  eyes 
guiltily,  shifted  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  seemed 
to  be  hunting  about  unsuccessfully  for  the  "  any  excuse  " 
that  is  "  better  than  none,"  and  finally  murmured,  "  I'm 
very,  very  sorry,  sir ;  and  it  shall  never  occur  again  "  ! 

We  have  all  met,  at  some  time  or  other,  the  pious 
beggar  who  was  eloquent  in  his  assurances  that  our 
bounty  towards  him  would  not  be  forgotten  at  Head- 
quarters, and  made  no  effort  to  reimburse  us  himself. 
But  I  think  young  Morsey's  jeu  d'esprit  would  take  a 
lot  of  beating.  He  owed  money  to  a  woman  who  had 
been  very  good  to  him,  but  he  could  not  see  his  way  to 
settling  the  debt ;  so  it  was  agreed  that  things  should 
remain  as  they  were  until  his  worldly  prospects  were 
improved — an  extremely  unlikely  contingency,  by-the- 
by.  Young  Morsey  was  deeply  affected  by  his  friend's 
kindness ;  but  surely  it  was  with  his  tongue  in  his 
cheek  that  he  wrote  to  her :  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
touched  I  am  by  your  generosity ;  and  if  the  Lord  don't 
pay  you  back,  I  will." 

Sapper's  humour  was  peculiar  to  Sapper.  A  gaunt, 
sinewy  man  was  Sammy,  as  he  was  affectionately  called, 
short  of  stature,  of  any  age  between  thirty  and  sixty, 
hollow  of  cheek,  mild  of  eye,  with  a  Saturday  morning 
chin  as  bristly  as  a  scrubbing-brush,  and  a  pair  of 
spectacles  which  never  yet  sat  straight  on  his  nose.  I 


VIRTUES  87 

am  sure  that  no  man  born  of  woman  was  ever  quite  like 
him.  He  was  distinctive ;  and  so  was  his  humour. 
Commenting  on  the  manifold  virtues  and  infirmities  of 
a  young  friend  of  his,  he  observed,  as  he  gazed  at  me 
through  his  spectacles  all  askew,  "  Yes,  sir,  the  boiy's  of 
very  weak  intellect — and  he  reads  the  Bible  every  day." 

"  The  boiy,"  he  said  on  another  occasion,  referring  to 
the  same  youngster,  "  belongs  to  the  Band  of  Hope  and 
the  Sunday  School — and  I  don't  think  he'll  ever  be 
]good  for  much." 

He  was  loyal  as  love,  was  Sapper.  Rivalry  in  church 
matters  suffocated  him.  That  anybody  should  presume 
to  do  what  we  at  St.  Cuthbert's  declined  to  do,  or  could 
not  do,  filled  him  with  wondering  contempt.  One  day 
he  told  me  about  an  East  End  parson  who,  with  the  help 
of  unlimited  tea,  was  drawing  hundreds  of  working-men 
to  his  services.  I  was  deeply  impressed. 

"  And  what  proportion  are  really  won  for  Christian- 
ity?" I  asked. 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  flickered  over  Sapper's  thin 
brown  face  as  he  replied,  "Before  we  answer  that 
question,  I  think  we  had  better  wait  until  the  tea-party 
is  over." 

The  quaint  and  curious  sayings  of  the  East  End 
youngster  would  fill  a  volume.  Ask  a  Millwall  lad  if  he 
would  like  to  go  to  the  seaside,  and,  ten  chances  to  one, 
his  answer  will  be,  "  Seaside  ?  Not  me !  I'd  rather 
have  a  penn'orth  o'  Seabreeze  off  a  whelk-stall." 

Coming  out  of  church  one  summer  evening,  I  was 
greeted  with  a  shout  of  derision  from  half-a-dozen 
youngsters  :  "  You  think  yourself  a  religious  man,  but 
you're  not.  No,  no,  no  !  Oh  dear,  no  !  "  Such  apparent 
rudeness  I  take  to  be  merely  love  of  chaff.  It  is  not 


88  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

really  meant ;  or,  at  any  rate,  it  is  not  meant  much. 
Surely  the  sobriquet  of  "  Dicky  Free,"  which  I  acquired 
soon  after  my  advent  to  Millwall,  may  have  been 
originally  spoken  with  some  contempt ;  but  the  same 
words  a  year  or  two  later  connoted  affection  of  a  very 
real  kind. 

Where  to  go  to  for  our  summer  excursion  was  a 
problem  which  claimed  our  attention  for  long  weeks 
before  the  appointed  day.  Sophie  once  suggested 
the  Zoo.  "But  they'd  keep  you  there,"  quietly  observed 
a  choir  boy. 

On  a  bitter  evening  in  the  winter  of  1897  the  Rev. 
J.  H.  A.  Law,  the  genial  Secretary  of  the  Church  of 
England  Temperance  Society,  formally  inaugurated  our 
Band  of  Hope  work.  I  was  in  the  chair.  The  east 
wind  had  played  havoc  with  my  features  generally,  and 
with  the  most  prominent  feature  of  my  face  in  particu- 
lar ;  and  I  devoutly  hoped  that,  for  once,  the  argument 
ad  rent  would  be  omitted.  What  was  my  horror  when 
Mr.  Law,  in  his  most  impressive  manner,  observed, 
"  Now,  children,  whenever  you  see  a  man  with  a  red 
nose,  what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

There  was  not  a  moment's  hesitation.  A  hundred 
pairs  of  eyes  were  turned  upon  me  like  a  hundred  pairs 
of  searchlights  alive  with  human  waggishness ;  and  a 
hundred  voices  shouted  as  one — 

"  Drink  ! " 

Can  the  reader  dimly  imagine  what  it  is  to 
live  in  daily  contact  with  such  supernaturally  sharp 
mites  ? 

Leda  Chaud  was  Nina's  bete  noir.  Leda  gave  herself 
airs  because  her  uncle  was  an  undertaker.  She  was  one 
of  those  persons  who  "  shake  hands  with  you  like  that," 


VIRTUES  89 

as  Grossmith  used  to  sing  at  the  Savoy  ;  that  is  to  say, 
she  would  lift  your  hand  high  in  the  air  as  if  under  the 
impression  that  it  was  an  interesting  physiological 
specimen,  and  let  it  drop  flop  as  though  convinced,  on 
inspection,  that  it  was  not.  The  child  was  undeniably 
snobbish ;  and  Nina,  being  a  true  East-ender,  hated 
snobbery  like  the  devil.  One  day,  Leda  arrived 
weighted  down  with  a  notable  piece  of  news :  she  had 
discovered  that  I  was  not  a  gentleman,  nor  my  wife  a 
lady.  Nina  shrugged,  and  cast  about  for  a  rejoinder. 
"  How  do  you  know  ? "  she  said  at  length,  rather 
lamely. 

"  Because  no  gentleman  or  lady  would  live  in  such  a 
place  as  Millwall,"  said  Leda.  "  And,  besides,"  she 
added  nimbly,  as  Nina  was  about  to  crush  her  with  the 
retort  obvious,  "my  Aunt  Priscilla  is  a  lady,  and  she 
associates  with  earls." 

The  breach  in  Leda's  armour  yawned*  Nina  had  no 
pity.  Like  a  flash  she  thrust  home  through  flesh  and 
bone — 

"If  your  aunt  was  a  real  lady,  she'd  associate  with 
countesses,  not  with  earls." 

It  was  a  repartee  worthy  of  Dr.  Johnson. 

For  pure  facetiousness  the  following  instances  are 
worth  chronicling. 

Before  St.  Cuthbert's  was  built  we  were  obliged,  as  I 
have  said,  to  hold  the  lads'  club  in  our  house.  At  that 
time  the  club's  "  properties  "  consisted  of  a  dozen  chairs 
or  so  and  a  few  dog-eared  picture-books.  Jim  Tristram 
was  monitor.  His  duty  was  to  see  that  the  chairs  were 
ranged  around  the  wall,  and  that  the  books  were  within 
easy  reach.  One  evening  I  arrived  at  the  club  rather 
late.  Jim  met  me  on  the  threshold. 


90  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

"  Hullo ! "  I  cried.     "  Everything  ready  ?  " 

"Yus,  everything.  On'y  there's  no  books  and  no 
chairs." 

"  Remember  that  Jesus  counts  your  mother's  tears 
when  you  are  naughty,"  said  Mrs.  Free,  impressively. 

"  Please,  miss,"  interrupted  Keddon,  "  does  He  count 
the  naughty  boy's  tears  wen  'e's  walloped?" 

"  And  then  all  the  locusts  disappeared,"  observed 
Molly,  one  of  my  home-grown  Sunday  School  teachers, 
concluding  an  edifying  lesson  on  the  Ten  Plagues. 
"  They  went  like  magic.  Now  where  did  they  go  ?  Yes, 
Walter?" 

"  John  the  Baptist  ate  'em,"  answered  the  eight-year- 
older,  with  a  grin  that  set  the  class  in  a  roar. 

"  Muwer,  the  baby  wants  yer,"  wailed  Adelina's 
youngest  but  one,  and  kept  on  in  a  dirge-like  tone  until 
my  nerves  began  to  tingle  warningly,  "  Muwer,  the  baby 
wants  yer." 

But  Adelina  was  negotiating  a  little  matter  at  the 
"  Dockers'  Arms,"  with  Goggles,  her  familiar,  and  could 
not  be  disturbed  for  love,  although  she  might  have  been 
for  money.  The  minutes  passed,  the  doleful  chant  con- 
tinuing without  intermission — 

"  Muv-ver  !     The  ba-aby  wants  yer." 

Suddenly  Adelina  appeared,  her  youth  renewed  like 
the  eagle's. 

"  Muv-ver ! "  shrieked  the  youngest  but  one,  "  the 
ba " 

"  Oh,  well !  Wot  does  'e  want  ?  "  cried  Adelina,  wiping 
her  mouth  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  "  Anybody  'd 
think  'e'd  committed  a  serious  crime,  by  the  fuss  you're 
makin'." 

Next  to  his  humour  I  should  say  that  the  East-ender's 


VIRTUES  91 

most  striking  virtue  is  his  affectionate  clannishness. 
He  will  do  anything  for  his  own.  Is  a  woman 
sick  ?  There  will  be  no  lack  of  willing  hands  to  help 
with  the  children  and  look  after  the  husband.  Is 
a  neighbour  "  badly  off,"  which  in  East  End  vernacular 
means  starving?  Somebody's  pocket  is  always  full 
enough  to  spare  a  copper  or  two.  It  is  not  unusual  for 
a  whole  street  to  subscribe  to  a  present  in  money  for  a 
decent  man  or  woman  unusually  down  on  their  luck ; 
and  the  "  friendly  lead  "  for  a  poor  fellow  who  has  met 
with  an  accident,  or  is  otherwise  hors  de  combat,  is  an 
established  institution. 

I  know  a  dear  white-haired  old  body,  very  poor,  very 
worried,  and  often  very  hungry,  who  for  six  years  has 
cared  for  a  woman  casually  thrown  across  her  path, 
tending  her  in  sickness,  sharing  a  crust  with  her  in 
health,  for  sheer  love,  without  money  and  without 
price. 

Stoneham  was  dying  of  wasting  sickness.  He  had  no 
wife ;  his  children  were  too  young  to  nurse  him.  One 
day  Mrs.  Glossop,  a  quiet,  mild-eyed,  reserved  sort  of 
woman,  dropped  in,  as  it  were  casually,  and  took  the  reins 
of  government.  She  washed  and  mothered  the  children, 
tidied  up  the  place,  and  tended  and  comforted  the 
sick  man.  Day  and  night  she  stuck  to  her  self-imposed 
task.  She  had  a  husband  and  children  of  her  own,  and 
her  cup  of  sorrow  was  fuller  than  most  people's.  I 
marvelled  at  her  abnegation.  One  day  she  explained 
the  matter  to  me.  "  You  see,"  she  said,  steadily  regard- 
ing me  out  of  those  mild  eyes  of  hers,  "you  see, 
Mr.  Free,  'e  ain't  got  no  wife,  an'  there's  no  one  'ere  to 
'elp  'im  if  I  don't.  Wot's  more,  my  sweetheart's  on'y 
too  glad  for  me  to  do  it,  and  'e's  ready  at  any  time  to 


92  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

give  a  'and  when  the  pore  feller  wants  movin',  an'  so 
on." 

And  these  are  the  people  to  whom  we  presume  to  teach 
religion ! 

Take  that  much-misunderstood  creature,  the  factory 
girl.  Under  her  rough  exterior  the  heart  of  a  woman 
beats  high  with  love,  if  not  with  hope.  It  is  true  that 
she  is  a  girl  to  be  feared.  That  familiar  terrible  yell  of 
hers,  that  screech  of  laughter  with  which  she  greets  the 
well-dressed  stranger,  are  almost  demoniacal.  But  the 
yell  and  the  screech  are  not  all  of  her.  Somewhere 
hidden  away  from  our  ken  is  her  better  nature.  Her 
pity,  her  tenderness,  her  mercy  are  unequalled.  Night 
after  night,  although  working  like  a  slave  through  the 
day,  she  will  sit  up  with  a  sick  mate,  even  putting  aside 
out  of  her  scanty  earnings  a  daily  portion  for  her  friend's 
nourishment. 

One  of  my  communicants  is  a  good  soul  who 
works  at  a  factory  for  a  weekly  wage  of  nine  shillings. 
Hearing  that  she  was  often  pinched  for  food  and  firing, 
I  resolved  to  give  her  a  pension  of  sixpence  a  week.  A 
ridiculously  small  sum,  the  reader  will  think.  But  only 
those  who  live  in  intimate  knowledge  of  the  poor  can 
possibly  realise  what  sixpence  a  week  means  in  the 
hands  of  a  thrifty  body.  Well,  Miss  Theobald — that 
is  the  dear  woman's  name — gratefully  accepted  the 
pension,  and  I  thought  all  was  ended.  In  a  week  or 
two,  however,  came  one  of  my  visitors  with  a  curious 
story.  Miss  Theobald  "  felt  it  on  her  conscience  "  that 
she  ought  not  to  have  accepted  the  pension,  when  so 
many  others — for  example,  Mrs.  Shillishall — were  so 
much  more  in  want  of  it  than  she.  Would  I  kindly 
transfer  it?  I  pooh-poohed  the  idea.  I  said  it  was 


VIRTUES 


93 


nonsensical,  sentimental.  I  invented  some  very  hard 
names  for  it.  Followed  another  message,  and  then 
another ;  finally,  shoals  of  messages.  Literally  bom- 
barded, I  had  to  surrender.  "You  know,"  said  Miss 
Theobald,  when  next  we  met,  "  I'm  not  badly  off,  am  I  ? 
— not  really  and  truly  ?  It's  nine  shillings  every  week, 
you  know,  reg'lar.  That's  where  it's  so  good — it's 
reg'lar." 

Yet  such  splendid  disinterestedness  the  East-ender 
reserves  for  "  his  own  "  ;  we  "  others  "  may  claim  no  part 
or  lot  in  it.  As  the  stranger  may  not  look  for  confi- 
dence, so  he  must  not  expect  kindness.  If  he  would 
secure  either  boon,  he  must  become  naturalised  by 
living,  during  a  space  of  years,  in  the  midst  of  these 
people.  Once  he  has  gained  their  affection,  the  rest  will 
be  found  easy.  His  interests  will  be  protected  with  a 
jealous  watchfulness  that  reminds  one  of  nothing  so 
much  as  a  mother's  care  for  her  offspring.  During  my 
summer  holidays  I  have  again  and  again  left  my  house 
entirely  unprotected.  I  have  made  no  request  that  it 
should  be  guarded,  yet  vigilant  eyes  have  covered  it  by 
day  and  by  night ;  and  woe  betide  any  intruder  who 
should  venture  to  try  a  bit  of  housebreaking  on  his  own 
account !  The  confidence  of  the  East-ender  is  a  very 
precious  thing  when  you  get  it,  but  it  takes  a  great  deal 
of  getting. 

The  well-known  independence  of  the  East-ender  has 
much  to  do  with  this  realisation  of  kinship.  He  may 
have  little  individuality,  but  the  sense  of  brotherhood  is 
strong  within  him.  I  have  known  several  cases  of 
young  people,  as  well  as  old,  who  have  been  kept  off  the 
rates  by  the  generosity  of  their  neighbours ;  and  as  for 
those  who,  time  out  of  mind,  would  have  gone  to  bed 


94  SEVEN  YEARS1  HARD 

hungry  but  for  the  bite  and  sup  offered  them  by  the 
"  lady  over  the  way  "  or  "  the  person  at  number  four," 
well,  their  name  is  legion.  Consequently  begging,  as  ordi- 
narily understood,  is  unknown,  is  indeed  inconceivable, 
in  the  East  End ;  and  complete  immunity  is  enjoyed 
from  the  gentlemanly  impostor  so  familiar  to  the  West 
End  clergy,  who  poses  as  an  officer,  a  doctor  or  an 
author. 

Of  course,  there  are  cases  of  direct  begging,  chiefly 
through  the  medium  of  children  who  are  carefully 
posted  up  ad  hoc,  but  the  results  are  not  always  such  as 
to  warrant  a  repetition  of  the  experiment.  Scupper's 
chubby  youngster  once  came  to  me  with  a  pitiful  story. 
"  Nuffin'  to  eat  since  yest'y,"  he  said,  gulping  down  his 
sobs.  "  Work  ?  Yes,  farver's  in  work,  but  'e  come  'ome 
drunk  las'  night  wiv  all  'is  money  gorn."  Scupper's 
chubby  youngster  returned  home  empty-handed. 

"  Wot  did  you  say  ?  "  screamed  his  mother. 

"  I  said  as  'ow  we  'adn't  'ad  nuffin'  to  eat  'cause  farver 
got  drunk,  and " 

Scupper's  chubby  youngster  found  it  difficult  to  sit 
down  for  forty-eight  hours. 

But  such  cases  are  exceptional.  As  a  rule  the  East- 
ender,  man,  woman  or  child,  is  too  noble-minded  to 
beg ;  and  the  vast  majority  of  breaches  of  the  rule  are 
directly  traceable  to  the  abominable  traffic  in  morals 
which  we  have  permitted  under  the  guise  of  philan- 
thropy. 

It  is  this  same  independence  of  spirit  which  prevents 
the  self-respecting  toiler  from  flaunting  his  troubles  before 
a  gaping  public.  To  the  casual  visitor  to  the  East  End, 
the  little  houses,  the  quaint  shops,  the  busy  thorough- 
fares convey  a  sense  of  robust  prosperity  ;  but  those 


VIRTUES  95 

who  make  their  home  there  could  tell  many  a  tale 
of  mute  suffering,  could  point  to  many  a  home  kept 
together  by  dint  of  incredible  self-sacrifice.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  quite  royal  pluck  and  pride  of  the  wife  of  a 
working-man  friend  of  mine.  It  was  in  the  dog-days  of 
1904.  My  friend  had  been  "put  off,"  and  funds  had 
fallen  to  zero.  Every  morning,  for  five  unspeakable 
weeks,  this  man  rose  very  early  and  started  forth  on  his 
interminable  search  for  a  job,  only  to  return  home  every 
evening,  sick  and  heart-broken  with  failure.  The  cup- 
board got  barer  and  barer.  One  by  one  the  bits  and 
bobs  of  furniture,  which  had  been  acquired  in  the  days 
of  prosperity,  disappeared :  the  deep  basket-chair  in 
which  the  man  loved  to  stretch  himself  when  smoking 
his  evening  pipe  ;  the  cheap  and  gaudy  little  clock  that 
ticked  away  at  a  furious  rate  with  a  face  of  serenest 
calm  ;  the  one  or  two  precious  heirlooms  that  spoke 
with  mute  eloquence  of  the  prosperous  farmhouse  on  the 
Yorkshire  moors — a  silver  spoon  thin  as  paper,  an  ancient 
brass  snuff-box  that  shone  like  gold,  and  so  on.  The 
day  came,  and  soon  came,  when  every  available  article 
had  found  its  way  to  the  pawnshop,  never  to  be  redeemed 
but  in  imagination.  Then  the  woman,  with  stern,  set  lips, 
made  her  resolution.  On  a  stifling  morning  in  July,  she 
took  her  two  youngest  children,  the  one  on  her  arm,  the 
other  by  the  hand,  and  started  for  Paddington  and  the 
Hampshire  fruit-farms.  "  I  must  share  the  burden,"  she 
said  to  her  husband.  "  You  can  face  the  world  better 
with  three  than  with  six.  Look  you  after  those ;  God 
helping  me,  I  will  look  after  these."  In  sixty  seconds 
she  could  have  sent  me  word  that  she  was  starving,  and 
in  ten  minutes  she  should  have  had  all  she  needed.  But 
her  pride  said  her  nay.  She  reeled  with  hunger  as  she 


96  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

started  with  her  bairns  in  the  still  morning.  Twice  on 
the  way  she  nearly  fainted ;  every  few  hundred  yards 
she  was  fain  to  sit  down  on  a  friendly  doorstep  and 
rest.  And  throughout  that  terrible  journey,  over  miles 
of  flagstones  and  across  innumerable  streets,  she  never 
condescended  to  ask  for  a  penny.  It  was  silly  ;  it  was 
ridiculous  ;  it  was  almost  criminal — what  shall  I  say  ? 
It  was  magnificent. 

Ultra-independence  of  the  kind  has  its  amusing 
aspects.  For  instance,  our  friend  Sapper's  notion  of 
the  object  of  a  sick  club  is  positively  uncanny.  One 
night  he  came  to  me  complaining  of  his  head.  He 
looked  wretchedly  ill.  "  Have  you  seen  a  doctor  ?  " 
I  naturally  asked. 

"  No,  that  I  haven't,  sir." 

(He  was  the  first  and  about  the  only  person  in  Millwall 
who  ever  called  me  "  sir,"  and  I  never  really  got  used 
to  it) 

"  But  you've  got  your  club  doctor  ?  "  I  remonstrated. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I've  got  my  club  doctor  right  enough,  and  a 
varry  nice  gentleman  he  is,  too.  I've  paid  for  my  club 
doctor  for  many  a  long  year." 

"  Then  why  not  go  to  him  now  you're  feeling  ill  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  it's  like  this  :  I  don't  like  to  trouble  the 
gentleman." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  '  Trouble  the  gentleman,' 
indeed  !  Why,  it's  his  duty  to  look  after  you." 

"  No,  I  don't  like  to  trouble  him,"  repeated  Sapper, 
meditatively  scratching  his  ear.  "  If  I  was  to  see  him, 
I  know  he  would  do  me  good.  But  I'm  not  the  man 
to  impose  on  him — that's  how  it  is." 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me ?  "  I  began,  incredulously. 

"  I  mean  to  tell  you,  sir,"  he  interrupted,  with  dignity, 


VIRTUES  97 

"  that   I've  only  applied  to  my  club   doctor   twice   in 
twenty  years." 

Such  independence  is  not  easily  distinguishable  from 
stubbornness ;  and,  truth  to  tell,  the  East  End  abounds 
in  examples  of  obstinacy  of  that  extreme  kind.  Our 
maid  Cassandra,  for  instance,  was  incarnate  perversity. 
When  she  dusted  my  study  table,  she  would  invariably 
place  the  inkstand  on  my  right  hand  instead  of  in  front 
of  me.  In  itself  that  was  an  insignificant  variation  on 
the  normal  arrangement ;  but  it  confused  me,  and  I 
frequently  found  myself  dipping  the  pen  into  empty  air. 
So,  every  morning,  I  religiously  restored  the  inkstand  to 
its  ordinary  position.  Every  evening,  Cassandra  quite 
as  religiously  moved  it  back  again.  At  last,  losing  all 
patience,  I  summoned  the  girl.  "  What  do  you  mean  by 
persistently  moving  the  inkstand  out  of  its  place  ?  " 

"  I  likes  it  better  there,"  said  Cassandra. 

Talking  of  maidservants  reminds  me  of  the  quite 
imperturbable  independence  of  Mylie.  Slasher,  the 
millionaire,  called  on  me  one  day  on  business.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  had  come  to  tell  me  what  he  thought 
of  me,  and  was  bursting  with  his  message.  In  his 
agitation  he  neglected  to  put  the  door-mat  to  its  proper 
use.  Mylie  surveyed  him  through  her  spectacles  with 
the  utmost  astonishment.  For  once  she  was  speechless. 
Not  until  Slasher  was  half-way  upstairs  did  she  recover 
herself.  Then  she  made  up  for  lost  time. 

"  'Ere,  you  !  "  she  cried,  "  we're  not  a.c-cust-omed  in 
this  'ere  'ouse  to  'avin'  people  walkin'  the  mud  all  over 
the  place.  You  jest  come  back  and  wipe  your  feet,  please." 

The  great  man  turned  with  a  scowl,  caught  a  danger- 
ous flash  in  Mylie's  black  eyes,  hesitated,  stopped — came 
back  and  did  as  he  was  told,  like  a  good  little  boy. 

H 


9  8  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

Mylie  intended  no  offence.  It  was  merely  her  East 
End  independent  way.  Such  independence  occasionally 
assumes  the  most  extraordinary  forms.  It  was  my  prac- 
tice on  Whit-Monday,  for  example,  to  take  my  choir  to  a 
friend's  house  to  tea.  Before  sitting  down  to  table,  we 
were  accustomed  to  retire  to  the  scullery  for  a  wash 
and  brush-up.  "  Shall  I  leave  my  coat  here  ? "  asked 
Darwin,  on  one  occasion,  when  he  had  finished  his 
ablutions.  "  Certainly,"  I  answered,  supposing  that  he 
referred  to  his  overcoat.  Something  distracted  me  for 
the  moment.  The  next  thing  I  was  conscious  of  was 
the  lad  sitting  at  the  tea-table  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

"  Bill ! "  I  shouted  (in  a  whisper),  "  what  on  earth  are 
you  doing  ?  Come  here  !  " 

The  boy  followed  me  into  the  scullery  with  his  usual 
mystified  expression  considerably  deepened. 

"  What's  wrong  ? "  he  asked.  "  Not  go  into  tea 
without  my  jacket  ?  Why,  we  never  put  on  our  jackets 
at  'ome." 

At  that  moment,  Cory,  who  was  fourteen,  and  knew 
everything,  swaggered  in. 

"  Hullo !  "  he  cried,  catching  sight  of  Darwin  in  the 
act  of  resuming  his  discarded  garment.  "  What  are  you 
up  to,  you  donkey  ?  You  don't  suppose  you're  goin'  in 
to  tea  with  your  jacket  on,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  that"  Darwin  declared,  with  the  assurance  of 
conscious  rectitude  ;  "  it's  the  fashion  'ere." 

"  Who  are  you  gittin'  at  ?  "  retorted  Cory,  with  exceed- 
ing scorn.  "  Don't  you  think  I  know  ?  " 

Independence  of  the  kind  is  apt  to  stagger  the 
stranger.  On  the  very  first  Christmas  Day  I  spent  in 
the  East  End,  I  received  a  considerable  shock  to  my 
susceptibilities.  At  the  close  of  the  morning  service, 


VIRTUES  99 

according  to  my  invariable  custom  elsewhere,  I  wished 
the  congregation  "  A  Merry  Christmas  ! "  Other  con- 
gregations had  always  received  this  expression  of  good- 
will with  stolid  indifference  or  mild  astonishment, 
occasionally  accompanied  by  a  liberal  use  of  the 
lorgnette.  Not  so  with  these  delightfully  original 
people.  The  words  had  scarcely  passed  my  lips,  when 
the  unexpected  response  burst  forth,  "  Same  to  you, 
Mr.  Free  !  And  many  of 'em  !"  What  more  natural? 
Therein  lies  the  charm  of  the  East-ender.  He  is  so 
guileless  and,  therefore,  so  unconventional.  One  day, 
Rivoli  walked  into  church  in  the  middle  of  the  service 
with  his  hat  on  and  his  jacket  off.  He  was  surprised, 
and  rather  hurt,  when  the  breach  of  etiquette  was 
pointed  out  to  him.  He  "didn't  mean  no  harm,  he 
was  sure."  No,  he  didn't  mean  "  no  harm  "  ;  his  action 
was  the  natural  result  of  his  independent  upbringing. 

Too  much  ceremony  is  not  considered  the  thing. 
More  than  a  mere  sotip$on  of  the  quality  is  regarded 
as  unbecoming.  Sometimes,  indeed,  the  remotest 
flavour  of  it  is  deemed  unnecessary.  I  discovered  this 
characteristic  in  the  winter  of  1889,  when  I  invited  our 
people  to  meet  the  present  Bishop  of  London,  then 
Bishop  of  Stepney,  at  an  evening  party.  For  a  whole 
week  we  did  not  receive  a  single  answer  to  our  invita- 
tions. My  wife  was  nervous.  I  assured  her  that  it  was 
all  right,  reminding  her  that  we  were  still  three  weeks 
from  the  eventful  night.  Another  week  passed — still 
no  answers.  Then  I  began  to  get  scared  myself.  When 
a  third  week  had  slowly  drifted  after  the  other  two,  and 
there  was  no  sign  whatever  from  the  three  hundred,  I 
really  grew  alarmed.  My  wife  was  almost  in  tears. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Is  nobody 

H  2 


TOO  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

coming?  Or,  if  they  are  coming  without  letting  me 
know,  how  am  I  to  cater  for  them  ?  " 

At  the  eleventh  hour,  light  came.  I  was  fingering 
one  of  the  invitation  cards,  when  my  eye  fell  on  four 
letters. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  I  exclaimed.     "  That  explains  it." 

"  What  explains  what  ?  " 

" '  R.S.V.P. ' !  " 

The  cloud  of  a  great  fear,  quickly  followed  by  a  burst 
of  sunlit  hope,  broke  over  my  wife's  face.  She  laughed. 
"  Well,  if  that's  all,  it's  easily  remedied." 

"  How,  pray  ?  " 

"  By  translating." 

"  You  think  I'm  going  to  these  good  folk ?  "  I 

began  ;  but  indignation  choked  me.  Turning  on  my 
heel,  I  swung  out  of  the  room. 

Within  twenty-four  hours  two  unexpected  opportuni- 
ties of  explanation  presented  themselves.  Young  Jack 
Fratter  broke  the  ice,  and  Rivers  carted  it  away,  as  it 
were.  Jack  had  been  having  a  hot  argument  with 
Tollawag,  and  on  my  arrival  for  the  choir  practice  I  was 
greeted  with  a  torrent  of  questions — "  What  about  them 
cards  ?  "  "  Is  Tollawag  right  ?  "  "  It  don't  mean  that, 
do  it  ?  "  "  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

I  tried  to  look  cool  and  collected.  "  Do  you  refer  to 
the  invitation  cards  ?  "  I  asked. 

There  was  a  chorus  of  eager  "  Yeses,"  as  the  boys 
crowded  round  me. 

"  Don't  you  understand  what  they  mean  ?  " 

A  doleful  chorus  of  "  Noes  "  carried  conviction. 

"  They  are  invitations  to  a  party." 

"  A  party ! '  murmured  Tollawag,  the  hot  blood 
mounting  to  his  temples. 


VIRTUES 

"  There  you  are  !  I  told  you  so  !  "  said  Jack.  "  You 
would  'ave  as  it  was " 

"  What  ?  "  I  asked,  encouragingly. 

"  The  three-hours'  service  ! "  cried  the  boy,  fixing  the 
flushed  and  discomforted  Tollawag  with  an  unutterable 
look. 

Next  day,  Rivers  stopped  me  in  the  street. 

"  I  haven't  answered  the  note  yet,"  he  burst  out, 
spasmodically,  "  because — because — to  tell  you  the  truth, 
because " 

I  broke  in  on  his  stammering  speech  with  rude  but 
saving  power,  and  in  twenty  seconds  had  explained 
matters  to  his  satisfaction. 

It  was  a  most  successful  evening.  The  genial  Bishop 
was  at  his  very  best,  and  put  everyone  at  ease.  "  All 
your  own  people,  Free?"  he  asked,  looking  with  some 
astonishment  at  the  crowded  hall. 

"  All  my  own  people,"  I  assured  him,  proudly. 

"  Let  us  walk  round,"  he  said. 

I  introduced  several  people  to  him,  and  all  went  well 
for  a  time.  Then  came  an  unexpected  hiatus.  "  And 
this  ?  "  said  the  smiling  Bishop,  extending  his  hand  to  a 
rosy-cheeked  damsel.  Horror !  The  young  woman 
was  a  perfect  stranger  to  me.  Searching  despairingly 
for  help,  I  caught  Tallboy's  eye.  He  must  have  inter- 
preted my  look  in  the  light  of  a  challenge. 

"  My  wife  couldn't  come,  so  I  brought  my  upstairs 
lodger,"  he  explained,  unabashed. 

I  hurried  the  Bishop  away,  but  only  to  jump  out  of 
the  frying-pan  into  the  fire.  Baxter  stood  radiant  in  the 
midst  of  a  blushing  circle  of  femininity.  The  Bishop 
seemed  to  suspect  something.  He  looked  sideways  at 
me.  I  shook  my  head  sorrowfully.  There  was  an 


102  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

awkward  pause.  But  Baxter  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 
With  a  comprehensive  wave  of  the  hand,  he  introduced 
the  unknown  ladies — "  Mrs.  Plasher  and  the  four  Miss 
Flashers,  from  Wapping  !  They  were  not  invited  ;  but 
I  knew  Mr.  Free  would  only  be  too " 

There  were  many  more  surprises  before  Dr.  Win- 
nington-Ingram  and  I  had  finished  the  circuit  of  the 
room  ;  but  we  will  draw  a  veil  over  the  amazement  of  it 
all.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  sundry  young  ladies  of 
sundry  young  gentlemen  came  on  the  strength  of  the  tender 
relationship  ;  that  two  youths  who  could  not  produce  a 
single  scrap  of  an  invitation  between  them  declined  to 
take  the  hint  to  retire,  and  remained  in  unabashed 
enjoyment  of  the  proceedings  during  the  whole  evening  ; 
and  that  an  elderly  unknown  person  of  soiled  appear- 
ance, who  had  snugly  ensconced  himself  into  a  corner, 
was  so  tight — so  tightly  wedged,  I  mean — that  he  could 
not  move  on,  although  repeatedly  requested  to  do  so. 
Exceedingly  unceremonious  is  your  East-ender  when 
you  get  him  pure  and  simple. 

Yet  even  he  has  his  little  prejudices.  In  the  matter 
of  dress  he  is  conventional  to  the  point  of  thraldom.  A 
girl,  for  instance,  who  should  attempt  to  take  her  hair 
out  of  curling-pins  until  the  afternoon  would  lay  herself 
open  to  the  suspicion  of  affectation.  Also,  in  spite  of  the 
popular  impression  to  the  contrary,  she  will  never,  or 
hardly  ever,  adorn  herself  with  feathers  and  flowers. 
Her  hat,  when  she  wears  one,  is  neatness  itself.  Her 
skirt  may  be  of  scarlet  and  her  bodice  of  blue ;  she 
may  slip  in  a  green  scarf  here,  for  the  sake  of  effect,  and 
a  yellow  sash  there,  for  mere  brilliance ;  but  she  is  a 
perfect  prude  in  the  matter  of  hats.  There  is  a  Diana- 
like  chasteness  about  her  headgear  which  removes  it 


VIRTUES 


103 


altogether  from  the  sphere  of  criticism.  Again,  in  direct 
contradiction  to  general  belief,  corduroys  would  be  con- 
sidered very  bad  form  in  the  gilded  youth  of  the  East 
End,  if  the  gilded  youth  of  the  East  End  at  all  affected 
them,  which  they  don't.  Should  a  young  man  attempt  to 
wear  corduroys  he  would  lose  caste.  The  young  man 
in  whom  the  wearing  of  corduroys  had  become  a 
confirmed  habit  would  be  socially  done  for ;  he  would 
never  be  able  to  hold  up  his  head  again. 

Many  people  do  not  know  these  things,  I  used  not 
to.  But  I  had  to  learn  them,  whether  I  would  or  not. 
Let  me  tell  my  readers  how.  It  was  the  morning  of  our 
annual  excursion.  The  long  line  of  brakes  was  on  the 
move,  and  I  was  in  the  act  of  taking  my  place  as  per- 
sonal conductor,  when  a  lad  shouted  out,  "  What  about 
them  corduroys  and  feathers,  Mr.  Free  ? "  I  had  no 
time  to  discuss  the  matter  then  ;  but  I  gathered  from  the 
polite  remarks  that  followed  me  as  I  drifted  away  in  the 
wake  of  my  Sunday  School,  that  something  disparaging 
to  East-enders,  of  which  I  was  supposed  to  be  the  author, 
had  appeared  in  the  morning  paper.  As  soon  as  possible 
I  secured  a  copy  of  the  paper  ;  and  there,  sure  enough, 
was  the  objectionable  article — feathers,  corduroys,  and  all. 
And  the  impression  was  abroad  that  I  had  written  it ! 
I  spent  the  day  in  gloomy  foreboding.  "  An  enemy 
hath  done  this,"  I  said.  It  was  not  difficult  to  fix  the 
lie  on  its  forger.  It  would  probably  have  been  quite 
as  easy  to  bring  it  home ;  but  I  knew  human  nature 
too  well  to  suppose  that  I  should  succeed  in  turning  the 
current  of  indignation  by  preferring  a  charge  against 
another.  My  forebodings  were  not  without  reason.  For 
months  I  endured  a  daily  martyrdom.  To  be  seen  in 
public  was  the  signal  for  a  universal  outburst  of  indig- 


io4  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

nation.  It  became  almost  impossible  for  me  to  walk 
down  the  West  Ferry  Road.  The  words  "  feathers  "  and 
"  corduroys  "  hurtled  through  the  air  ;  groans  and  hisses 
greeted  me  from  groups  at  street  corners  ;  indignant 
letters  appeared  in  the  local  papers  ;  and,  lastly,  filling 
the  cup  of  my  bitterness  to  overflowing,  came  a  question 
from  my  Bishop — "  People  are  writing  to  me  about  some 
article  in  a  newspaper.  What  does  it  all  mean  ? " 
Your  genuine  East-ender  is  a  stickler  in  the  matter  of 
dress. 

Dress  excepted,  however,  he  is  the  most  unceremo- 
nious of  human  kind.  Consequently,  the  snob  cannot 
live  in  the  East  End.  Now  and  again  he  tries  to,  but  I 
have  never  known  him  to  succeed.  For  a  time  neigh- 
bours may  be  tolerant,  hoping  for  better  things.  But 
the  inevitable  is  bound  to  come.  The  "  gentleman,"  the 
"  lady,"  the  "  doctor's  widow,"  the  "  lord's  grandnephew  " 
— the  snob  assumes  a  dozen  titles — suddenly  disappears, 
generally  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  followed  by  a  united 
yell  of  execration  from  his  numerous  creditors.  No ! 
The  snob  cannot  thrive  in  the  East  End.  For  no  true 
East-ender  pretends  to  be  what  he  is  not,  or  claims  any 
kind  of  distinction  that  he  does  not  possess. 

Is  it  surprising  that  he  is  frankly  contemptuous  of 
the  pomps  and  vanities  of  Church  and  State  ?  The  Lord 
Mayor's  Show  does  not  rouse  his  enthusiasm  ;  nor  a 
Royal  procession.  He  is  no  more  concerned  with  them 
than  he  is  with  a  thanksgiving  service  at  St.  Paul's  or 
a  Church  Congress.  He  reads  sarcastic  paragraphs 
about  them  in  his  Sunday  newspaper,  and  he  puts  them 
all  in  his  pipe,  as  it  were,  and  smokes  them.  The  great 
ones  of  earth  are  to  him  so  many  marionettes,  who  go 
through  a  series  of  clever,  but  stilted  and  unlifelike 


VIRTUES 


105 


performances,  and  succeed  in  making  sensible  folk  laugh 
immoderately. 

I  have  had  to  teach  East  End  boys  and  girls  "  God 
save  the  Queen  "  with  the  same  painstaking  care  that  I 
have    taught  them  "  Praise   God  from  whom  all  bless- 
ings flow."       Even  when    learnt,  neither  the   National 
Anthem  nor  the  grand  old  Doxology  has  inspired  them 
with  any  sense  of  reward  for  their  trouble.     My  club 
lads  used  resolutely  to  refuse  to  take  off  their  hats  during 
the  singing  of  the  National  Anthem ;  and  the  crowded 
audiences   invariably  attracted   by  our  .entertainments 
would  clear  off  as  fast  as  their  legs  could  carry  them,  the 
moment  the  announcement  was  made  that  we  would 
close  the  proceedings  in  patriotic  fashion. 

But  the  war  changed  all  that.  One  evening,  about  a 
month  after  fighting  began  in  South  Africa,  I  was 
amazed  to  hear  the  "  big  drum  "  of  our  lads'  brigade 
insisting  that  the  whole  company  should  doff  their  caps 
on  his  striking  three  thumping  beats  as  a  signal  for 
"  God  save  the  Queen."  "  Hats  off,  please !  "  cried  the 
"  big  drum  "  ;  and  in  a  moment  every  head  was  bared,  and 
a  score  of  lusty  young  voices  took  up  the  familiar  strain. 

Nowhere  does  the  admirable  independence  of  the 
East-ender's  character  show  to  greater  advantage  than 
in  his  superiority  to  physical  pain.  Sylvia  cut  her  finger 
one  day.  It  bled  profusely.  "  How  did  you  stop  the 
bleeding  ? "  I  asked,  glancing  compassionately  at  the 
wounded  member. 

"  Oh,  dad  soon  settled  that  by  clapping  a  teaspoonful 
of  salt  on  it." 

II  It  hurt,  eh?" 

The  child  paused.  "Well,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
ripple  of  laughter,  "  it  did  make  me  'op  a  bit." 


106  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

Who  ever  heard  of  a  factory  girl  acknowledging  her- 
self to  be  ill  ?  She  may  be  actually  dying  on  her  feet ; 
the  pressure  of  her  daily  toil  may  have  so  told  upon  her 
as  to  have  utterly  undermined  her  health  ;  as  the  result 
of  incessant  labour  under  harmful  conditions,  her  whole 
frame  may  be  honeycombed  with  disease  ;  but  you  won't 
catch  her  complaining.  Not  she  !  There's  a  many  a  great 
deal  worse  orf  than  wot  she  is — that's  straight ! 

You  meet  a  boy  in  the  street  with  his  eye  bunged  up 
by  a  mosquito  bite.  "  Hullo,  sonny !  Been  in  the 
wars  ?  " 

"Thet  ain't  nuffink !  You  oughter  to  see  Billy's 
mouf." 

"  What ! "  you  say  to  a  woman  ;  "  got  your  fingers 
cut  off  in  the  machinery  ?  Poor,  poor  thing  !  " 

"  Lord  !  "  is  the  laughing  reply,  "  wot's  it  matter  ? 
It'll  be  all  the  same  in  a  'underd  years." 

It  smacks  of  fatalism,  somewhat ;  but,  after  all,  that 
is  the  kind  of  stuff  which,  in  the  past,  has  made  England 
what  she  is ;  and  that  is  the  kind  of  heroism  of  which 
any  country  might  well  be  proud. 

Nellie  Winder  got  asbestos  in  her  eyes  ;  her  suffer- 
ings were  terrible.  She  went  up  to  one  of  the  great 
London  hospitals,  and  was  kept  in  a  draughty  hall  from 
half-past  eleven  to  half-past  six.  There  was  a  crowd  of 
people  waiting,  for  the  most  part  old  men,  women,  and 
little  children  ;  and  although  it  was  in  the  depth  of 
winter,  and  a  bitter  north-easter  was  blowing,  not  one  of 
the  officials  who  bustled  to  and  fro  all  day  long  had  the 
common-sense  or  common  chanty  to  close  the  windows. 
But  Nellie  did  not  complain.  All  she  said,  when  narrat- 
ing the  circumstance,  was,  "  Good  job  I  'adn't  to  go  *  in ' !  " 

Young  Mathers  contracted  small-pox.     When  he  was 


VIRTUES  107 

convalescent,  I  tried  to  get  him  to  a  home.  To  my 
astonishment,  nobody  would  have  him.  All  charitable 
avenues  were  rigidly  closed  against  him.  That  was 
unfair  ;  it  was  even  indecent.  When  all  has  been  said 
that  can  be  said  about  the  need  for  the  most  scrupulous 
care,  the  fact  remains  that  the  small-pox  convalescent  is 
as  dangerous  as  every  other  convalescent,  no  more  and 
no  less.  It  is  unworthy  of  our  common  brotherhood 
that  a  peculiar  stigma  should  attach  to  him.  To  debar 
him  from  the  help  of  the  benevolent,  simply  because  his 
sickness  has  been  of  a  particularly  trying  kind,  is  as 
illogical  as  it  is  inhuman.  Mathers  was  obliged  to  return 
to  his  work  without  a  holiday,  with  the  result  that  it 
was  many  months  before  he  recovered  his  strength.  Yet 
he  made  no  fuss.  His  only  comment  was,  "  I  guess 
they're  afraid  o'  we  East  End  chaps." 

And  he  was  about  right.  The  fear  of  the  East  End 
by  those  who  know  nothing  of  it  would  be  ludicrous 
were  it  not  so  sad.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  West 
Ferry  Road  or  the  Commercial  Road  is  far  safer  than 
Regent  Street  or  Oxford  Street ;  and  as  for  women,  they 
are  so  rarely  molested,  or  even  rudely  spoken  to,  that 
when  such  a  thing  occurs  it  causes  quite  a  sensation. 
The  East  End  has  a  bad  name ;  and  a  place,  like  a  dog, 
with  a  bad  name  is  done  for.  "  Can  any  good  come  out 
of  Nazareth  ?  " 

But  I  have  wandered  from  my  point,  which  is  that  the 
East-ender  is  a  hero  of  no  mean  type.  He  will  uncom- 
plainingly endure  ills  that  you  and  I  would  tragically 
call  heaven  and  earth  to  witness.  His  whole  life  is  so 
poor,  so  suffering,  so  limited,  so  grey,  that  one  pain,  one 
degradation,  one  misery,  more  or  less,  does  not  matter. 
"  Well,  I  shall  have  to  make  the  best  of  it,"  he  says. 


108  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

And  thereby  hangs  the  story  of  his  life  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave.  He  makes  the  best  of  it.  His  motto 
would  seem  to  be,  "  Enjoy  life  if  you  can,  and  while  you 
can  ;  and  if  you  can't,  don't  make  a  fuss  about  it/' 

One  winter  evening  I  came  across  two  lads  sitting  on  a 
doorstep.  The  one  was  eating  fried  fish  piping  hot  from  the 
grill  ;  the  other  was  smoking  a  cigarette.  The  cigarette- 
smoker  was  a  very  small  boy  ;  and  in  the  course  of  con- 
versation I  ventured  to  suggest,  humbly  enough,  I  trust, 
that  it  might  be  well  for  him  to  wait  a  year  or  two 
before  indulging  in  the  habit. 

"  Wot  'o ! "  observed  the  elder  boy,  his  mouth  full. 
"  'E  may  be  a  dead  'un  by  that  time.     Smoke  an'  eat  "- 
he   crammed   a  huge   lump   of   fish   into  his  mouth — 
"  smoke  an'  eat  while  you  can,  I  sez." 


CHAPTER  V 

LIMITATIONS 

MUCH  of  this  book  will  be  unintelligible  unless  the 
peculiar  limitations  of  the  East-ender's  existence  are 
carefully  borne  in  mind.  Millwallers,  as  I  have  said, 
are  quite  isolated  from  the  rest  of  London,  but  hardly 
more  so  than  are  other  parts  of  the  East  End.  Nor, 
although  the  East  End  is  fringed  along  its  whole  length 
by  the  Thames,  is  this  isolation  modified  to  any  per- 
ceptible degree  by  the  coming  and  going  of  seafaring 
men.  It  is  amazing  that  more  sailors  are  not  turned 
out  of  this  water-intersected  land.  One  would  imagine 
that  to  the  growing  lad,  whose  brain  is  a-teem  with 
romance,  the  masts  that  rise  everywhere  like  a  winter 
forest,  the  great  ships  cautiously  stealing  down  the 
river,  the  dry  docks  where  battered  hulks  are  patched 
and  painted  into  smart  craft,  the  music  of  winch  and 
crane,  of  bell  and  siren,  would  fill  him  with  hungry 
longing  for  the  freedom  and  joy  of  a  sailor's  life. 
Nothing  of  the  kind.  The  old  salts  he  knows,  who 
on  rare  occasions,  over  pipe  and  glass,  crack  of  their 
sea-roving  days,  are  shattered  hulks  indeed.  For  them 
there  is  no  dry  dock  where  they  can  be  furbished  up  to 
look  like  new.  They  are  just  a  commonplace  lot  of 


no  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

toiling  men,  worried,  and  tired,  and  failing  in  health, 
with  no  prospect  but  the  sick  asylum  and  a  pauper's 
grave,  when  the  once  brawny  muscles  fail  for  good  and 
all.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  lad  stops  his  ears  to  the 
charmer,  turns  his  back  on  the  sea,  and  becomes  odd 
boy  in  a  neighbouring  yard  at  eight  shillings  a  week  ? 
Sailors  are  the  only  men  in  the  East  End  who  travel, 
and  for  all  the  good  it  does  them,  apart  from  the  getting 
of  the  daily  bread,  they  might  as  well  follow  the 
example  of  the  yard-boy.  Ask  one  of  them  to  relate 
his  experiences,  and  you  will  learn  how  little  education 
for  the  uneducated  there  is  in  travel.  Has  he  been  to 
China  ?  Yes — but  the  Chinese  is  a  rum  lot.  He  knows 
India?  A  bit — and  the  Indians  is  a  rum  lot.  Has  he 
ever  gone  as  far  as  New  Zealand  ?  You  bet ! — and  the 
Maoris  are  a  rum  lot,  if  you  like. 

East-enders  are  no  travellers.  Three  months  after 
Flossie  Romer  was  married,  her  husband  went  to 
Canada,  where  he  obtained  an  excellent  situation.  The 
days  and  weeks  passed  by,  but  Flossie  made  no  effort 
to  join  him.  I  remonstrated,  I  urged,  I  almost  threat- 
ened. All  in  vain.  In  the  third  year  after  the  young 
man's  departure,  Flossie's  mother  assured  me  in  a  stage 
whisper  that  she  very  much  feared  that  her  daughter 
would  never  summon  up  courage  to  go  ;  for,  she  added, 
"  Flossie  is  so  frightened  of  the  water  that  I  can  hardly 
get  her  to  go  to  Gravesend  !  " 

There  are  people  in  the  East  End  who  have  not  been 
five  miles  from  London  in  their  lives  ;  and  the  number  of 
those,  old  and  young  alike,  who  have  never  seen  London 
— I  mean,  as  represented  in  its  great  national  monu- 
ments :  Westminster,  the  British  Museum,  the  National 
Gallery,  the  Temple,  and  so  on — is  legion. 


LIMITATIONS  1 1 1 

I  once  handed  in  a  telegram  at  an  East  End  office. 

"  Hum !  the  Temple  ! "  mused  the  telegraph  girl. 
"  That's  in  the  country,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Bless  my  heart!  No,"  I  replied;  "it's  in  the 
very  middle  of  London." 

"  Lon— don  ?  "  drawled  the  girl.  "  Oh— h  !  Then  I 
suppose  the  City  Road  will  find  it "  ! 

I  overheard  a  curious  conversation  one  summer  after- 
noon. Mrs.  Beam  was  sitting  on  our  drawing-room 
window-sill,  a  favourite  resting-place  for  the  weary, 
pouring  into  the  sympathetic  ears  of  a  few  bosom  friends 
the  appalling  fact  that  she  had  to  go,  that  very  evening 
at  seven,  to  meet  her  niece  at  Liverpool  Street  Station. 
How  long  it  would  take  her  to  get  there  she  really  did 
not  know !  She  thought  she'd  just  brush  her  hair,  put 
on  her  bonnet,  and  start  at  once. 

At  that  moment  my  wife  stepped  into  the  street. 
"You'll  have  to  wait  for  hours  if  you  go  now,"  she 
said.  "  It's  only  three  o'clock.  If  you'll  tell  me  where 
your  daughter  is  coming  from,  and  at  what  time  she 
leaves,  I'll  ascertain  exactly  when  she  is  due  to 
arrive." 

Mrs.  Beam  was  confounded,  and  all  the  other  women 
sniffed,  except  one,  who  said  incredulously,  "  Lor'  now  ! 
can  you  do  all  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.     We  have  a  time-table,  you  know." 

"  You  don't  say  so ! "  said  the  incredulous  woman. 
"  And  what  might  that  be,  now  ?  " 

"  Obviously,"  said  my  wife,  forgetting  that  to  the 
East-ender  nothing  is  necessarily  obvious,  "  a  book 
containing  the  times  of  trains,  the  times  of  the  arrival 
and  departure  of  every  train  in  Great  Britain." 

The  incredulous  woman  screwed  up  her  lips  as  if  on 


ii2  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

the  point  of  whistling,  but,  abandoning  the  idea,  simply 
said,  "  Ah  ! " 

"  I'll  go  and  fetch  it,"  said  my  wife.  As  she  re-entered 
the  house,  she  overheard  one  of  the  women  exclaim  — 
"  My  Gawd  !  How  they  do  things,  them  people  ! " 

By  the  very  conditions  of  his  life,  the  East-ender  is 
denied  the  culture  and  discipline  of  travel ;  and  literature, 
that  other  great  source  of  enlightenment,  is  a  forbidden 
way  to  him  because  of  his  amazing  lack  of  education 
and  contentment  therewith.  Books  stimulate  thought, 
not  emptiness.  And  the  East-ender's  mind  is  empty, 
not,  indeed,  because  there  is  nothing  to  fill  it,  but 
because  what  there  is  cannot  be  got  into  it.  Therefore 
bookshops,  properly  so-called,  are  almost  unknown  in 
the  East  End.  Sir  Walter  Besant  found  in  this  part 
of  the  metropolis  nothing  but  the  Illustrated  Police 
Budget.  He  was  wrong,  but  not  very  far  wrong.  The 
Daily  Mail  is  the  only  morning  paper  that  has  any  sale 
to  speak  of;  and  the  only  evening  paper  that  counts  is 
the  Evening  News.  Lloyds  and  Reynolds*  form  the 
staple  Sabbath  diet  of  the  Millwall  working-man,  while 
a  lighter  kind  of  refreshment  is  provided  by  the  London 
Comic,  which  is  hawked  about  on  Sunday  afternoons  by 
a  fellow  with  the  croak  of  a  raven. 

Once,  in  the  days  of  my  hardihood,  I  asked  at  an 
East  End  newspaper  shop  for  the  Westminster  Gazette. 

"The  what?"  politely  inquired  the  old  lady  behind 
the  counter. 

I  repeated  my  request. 

"  There's  no  sich  paper,"  declared  the  old  lady,  with 
much  assurance. 

"  No  such  paper !  "  I  echoed,  not  without  a  touch  of 
acerbity.  "  The  Westminster  Gazette  has  been  in  exist- 


LIMITATIONS  113 

ence  for  years,  and  is  one  of  the  leading  papers  of  the 
day." 

"Well,  /  never  'card  of  it,"  the  old  lady  declared 
aggressively. 

"  Why,  where  were  you  brought  up  ?  "  I  said,  with  a 
feeble  attempt  at  being  funny. 

The  old  lady  took  the  remark  amiss.  "  'Ere ! "  she 
screamed,  "  'Ere  !  For  thirty  years  I've  lived  'ere,  and 
it's  the  first  time  as  /  was  ever  asked  for  your  West- 
minister Gazette" 

He  does  not  hunger  and  thirst  after  knowledge,  your 
East-ender.  I  used  to  be  keen  on  getting  him  to  read, 
supposing  the  thing  could  be  done.  So  I  bought  a 
capital  selection  of  books,  and  offered  them  at  an 
absurdly  low  price,  but  I  never  succeeded  in  selling 
them. 

Travel  and  books  are  not  popular  in  the  East  End. 
Were  it  possible  to  plump  down  at  our  very  doors  the 
finest  library  in  the  kingdom,  it  is  doubtful  if  we  should 
have  either  the  energy  or  the  ability  to  avail  ourselves  of 
the  intellectual  pabulum  provided.  Could  free  excur- 
sions on  our  behalf  be  organised  to  the  four  quarters  of 
the  globe,  it  is  as  certain  as  can  be  that  the  scheme 
would  fail  for  lack  of  applicants. 

Let  the  reader  try  to  imagine  the  condition  of  a 
people  who  neither  read  nor  travel ;  who  know  no- 
thing of  the  great  tide  of  culture  running  at  their  very 
feet ;  who  are  unaware  of  those  heirlooms  of  theirs,  the 
thoughts  of  their  noblest  fellow-countrymen  ;  who  are 
oblivious  of  the  very  existence  of  the  men  of  renown  of 
other  nationalities  who,  with  their  peers  everywhere, 
are  building  up,  stone  by  stone,  the  fabric  of  society  ; 
and  he  will  realise  why  these  people  are  what  they  are. 

I 


1 14  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

Who  shall  venture,  in  the  face  of  such  limitations,  to  be 
astonished  at  anything  they  may  do  or  say  ?  And  they 
do  and  say  some  very  extraordinary  things,  of  which  I 
will  give  a  few  examples. 

It  was  Witson  who,  coming  across  a  History  of  Hol- 
land, begged  to  be  told  in  what  language  it  was  written. 

"  German,"  said  my  wife. 

"  No  !  "  objected  Witson,  pointing  to  the  title.  "  That 
ain't  German ;  that's  'Olland."  Which  is  a  fair  sample 
of  the  cocksureness  of  the  average  East  End  lad. 

Old  Pete,  after  incredible  pressure,  went  to  the  sick 
asylum.  He  was  back  in  a  month. 

"  They  discharged  you  ?  "  I  asked,  in  surprise. 

"  I  discharged  myself,"  said  Old  Pete.  "  There  was  a 
man  nex'  bed  to  me  wot  they  killed  orf." 

"Killed  off?  " 

"  Yes.  That's  wot  they  do  there.  Everybody  knows 
that.  Drugs  !  I  know.  Not  me  !  "  He  turned  to  his 
wife.  "If  you  want  to  'urry  me  up,  send  me  to  the 
infirm'ry,  mate ;  if  you  want  me  to  live,  keep  me  at 
'ome." 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  hundreds  of  East- 
enders  die  in  utter  wretchedness  every  year  rather  than 
go  to  the  sick  asylum.  The  prejudice  is  of  many 
years'  standing,  and  may  be  traced  back,  perhaps,  to 
the  barbarous  days  of  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 

I  once  preached  on  the  subject  of  "  Boy- Atheists."  A 
day  or  two  afterwards,  one  of  my  visitors  was  calling  on 
Mrs.  Grimes,  in  order  to  ascertain  why  her  little  girl 
had  been  absent  from  Sunday  School  on  the  previous 
Sunday. 

"  Well,  it's  like  this,  miss,"  Mrs.  Grimes  explained  ; 


LIMITATIONS  115 

"  I  'appened  to  tell  my  'usband  what  Mr.  Free  was 
a-doin' " 

"  How  do  you  mean — what  he  was  doing  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  'e  'ad  been  an'  got  a  boy-atheist  to  preach 
in  'is  church.  My  'usban'  says  to  me,  'e  says, '  Take 
that  child  away  from  Free's,  Sary  Ann.  D'ye  'ear  ? 
Take  'er  away !  No  atheists  for  me  ! '  'E  was  that 
angry,  miss,  an'  swore  that  dreadful,  that " — with  a  self- 
righteous  sniff — "  I  took  her  away  at  once." 

I  verily  believe  that  not  one-half  of  the  people  of 
Millwall  have  ever  quite  realised  that  St.  Cuthbert's  is 
a  Christian  church,  or  that  it  is  connected  in  any  sort  of 
way  with  the  Church  of  England.  They  regard  it  in 
the  light  of  a  "  show  "  which  I  am  running  for  my  own 
profit.  "  Free's  "  is  the  name  it  generally  goes  by,  and 
sometimes  by  designations  which  are  even  less  polite. 

"  Goin'  to  get  'im  christened  to-day  ? "  I  overheard 
Mrs.  Gallivan  asking  a  neighbour  whose  voice  I  failed 
to  recognise. 

"  No.     Sunday  week." 

"  That's  right.  Be  good  for  once  in  your  life ! 
Where?  Chapel?" 

"  Lord,  no  !     Old  Dick's." 

It  was  difficult  to  persuade  the  members  of  our 
Window  Gardening  Society  that  plants  of  unprepossess- 
ing appearance  possessed  any  value.  Mrs.  Worcester 
threw  her  begonia  bulbs  on  to  the  top  of  a  cupboard, 
under  the  impression  that  they  were  onions  ;  and  Mrs. 
Twobear  was  so  disgusted  with  the  grubby  look  of  her 
geraniums,  that  she  tossed  them  into  the  dustbin. 
Another  practical  member  boiled  her  tulip  bulbs  for  her 
husband's  dinner ;  while  the  mingled  joy  and  astonish- 
ment of  Mrs.  Skimper  are  worth  preserving.  "  I  sowed 

I  2 


n6  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

them  withered   old  things  wot  you  sent  me,  and  I'm 
blest  if  they  didn't  come  up  \ " 

All  this,  of  course,  is  very  excusable,  when  one 
reflects  how  few  opportunities  East-enders  have  of 
cultivating  flowers  ;  but  the  lack  of  opportunity  is  sad 
to  reflect  upon.  - 

I  have  already  spoken  of  Cassandra.  She  was  a  fear- 
ful lump  of  a  girl,  very  hoarse,  exceedingly  prone  to 
religion  and  novelettes,  and  amorous  to  the  bursting 
point.  Strange  things  she  said  and  did  during  her 
short  reign.  The  order  of  the  household  astonished  her 
mightily.  That  one  should  knock  before  entering  a 
room,  sound  a  gong  to  announce  a  meal,  show  visitors 
into  the  drawing-room  instead  of  leaving  them  on  the 
doorstep — these  and  a  hundred  other  novelties  rilled  her 
with  amazement.  Also,  she  loved  a  discovery.  She 
made  one  on  the  occasion  of  the  first  and  almost  only 
formal  call  we  ever  had  from  a  neighbour.  My  wife  and  I 
were  out  at  the  time.  On  our  return,  Cassandra  burst 
into  the  room  in  a  state  of  unwonted  excitement,  wildly 
flourishing  a  couple  of  visiting  cards. 

"  Look  'ere  !  "  she  cried.  "  A  gentleman  come,  and  a 
lady  come  with  him,  and  they  both  left  their  tickets" 

A  well-known  public-house  in  the  West  Ferry  Road 
is  called  the  Lord  Nelson^  and  a  life-size  figure  of  the 
hero,  ensconced  in  a  niche  like  a  mediaeval  saint,  bears 
witness  to  the  interesting  fact.  One  March,  this  public- 
house  was  undergoing  a  spring-cleaning,  and  about  the 
same  time  I  was  arranging  with  the  venerable  Earl 
Nelson  to  come  and  talk  to  my  workers. 

"  Ah  !"  observed  Mrs.  Standby,  when  she  heard  of  the 
nobleman's  visit,  "  that's  very  interestin'.  It  '11  be  so 
gratifyin'  for  'im  to  see  his  pub.  nice  and  clean." 


LIMITATIONS  117 

In  what  manner  could  the  East-ender's  limitations  be 
better  exhibited  than  in  his  treatment  of  a  stranger  ? 
I  have  already  narrated  my  own  experience,  how  the 
factory-girls  would  stand  and  yell  at  me.  That,  of 
itself,  of  course,  is  no  proof  of  narrowness  ;  for  we  all 
know  that  to  bait  the  parson  whenever  possible  is  quite 
the  correct  thing.  But  I  have  often  been  sadly  divided 
between  the  longing  to  laugh  and  the  obligation  to  weep 
at  the  badgering  the  well-dressed  stranger  would  receive 
at  the  hands  of  his  fellow-countrymen  of  the  East  End. 
Men  and  women  alike  would  cheerfully  criticise  him, 
passing  candid  remarks  on  his  personal  appearance — his 
gait,  dress,  features,  and  then  would  fall  into  convulsions 
of  merriment  at  their  own  wit.  I  have  given  the  matter 
my  careful  consideration,  and  have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  well-dressed  stranger  acts  upon  the 
mind  like  a  tonic.  Work  is  not  inspiriting  in  the  East 
End  ;  frequently  it  is  depressing.  Under  its  influence 
one  is  apt  to  get  down-hearted  ;  life  seems  colourless 
and  empty  ;  when,  lo,  the  well-dressed  stranger,  and  joy 
unspeakable  !  He  is  a  denizen  of  another  sphere.  He 
brings  with  him  some  of  the  romance  and  mystery  of 
the  penny  novelette  and  the  feuilleton  of  the  halfpenny 
newspaper ;  and  because  the  East-ender  does  not 
understand  him,  he  laughs  at  him.  What  more  natural  ? 
The  peculiarity,  when  one  thinks  of  it,  is  not  confined  to 
the  East  End. 

Sometimes,  when  the  East-ender  has  had  his  laugh 
out,  he  begins  to  exhibit  mild  curiosity.  "  But  what 
have  you  come  here  for?"  I  used  to  be  frequently 
asked,  at  one  time.  And  an  assurance  that  I  had  come 
to  try  to  be  helpful  met  with  polite  but  decided  sceptic- 
ism. Slingsby,  who  was  a  server,  asked  me,  "  And  what 


n8  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

was  you  afore  you  come  'ere?  A  plumber?"  And 
Gravestone  marvelled  that  I  did  not  look  out  for  "  a 
better  job." 

Miss  Birtem,  a  lady  worker,  possessed  a  portable 
harmonium,  with  which  she  used  to  delight  the  factory- 
girls  during  their  dinner  hour.  After  examining  the 
instrument,  one  of  the  most  serious  of  her  hearers  asked 
her,  "  Now,  what  else  do  you  do  with  it  ?  Do  you  play 
it  round  the  pubs,  of  a  hevening  ?  " 

As  I  have  said,  the  East-ender  is  suspicious  of  the 
stranger.  He  is  as  certain  as  he  can  be  that,  in  some 
mysterious  way,  unknown  and  unknowable,  we  are  all 
making  a  good  thing  out  of  him.  A  lady  gave  me  a 
guinea  for  my  Boys'  Club,  and  most  unfortunately 
mentioned  the  fact  to  some  of  the  lads.  For  weeks 
afterwards  I  could  not  step  out  of  doors  without  being 
greeted  with  cries  of  "  Wot  about  that  sovereign  wot 
Mrs.  Green  away  give  you  ?  Come  on  !  'And  it  over  !  " 
And  it  was  not  until  Hal  Cobbold  had  waited  on  me, 
and  had  received  my  personal  explanation  with  many 
grunts  of  dissatisfaction  and  grins  of  doubt,  that  the 
matter  was  allowed  to  die  a  natural  death. 

Nowhere  are  the  limitations  of  the  East-ender  more 
aggressively  obvious  than  in  his  language.  By  "lan- 
guage "  I  do  not  mean  bad  language.  The  East-ender 
can  claim  no  monopoly  of  that ;  although,  to  be  quite 
fair,  were  a  prize  for  bad  language  offered  for  competition, 
in  all  probability  he  would  win  it  easily.  In  parentheses 
I  should  like  to  say  that  the  man  who  habitually  uses 
what  we  call  bad  language  does  not  mean  very  much  by 
it.  There  is,  of  course,  the  danger  of  minimising  its 
significance.  A  friend  once  suggested  to  me  that  con- 
tinued contact  with  vile  talk  in  the  long  run  will  blunt 


LIMITATIONS 


119 


the  finest  sensibilities.  It  may  be  so.  I  will  admit  that 
language  which  shocked  me  when  I  came  to  the  East  End 
ceased  to  do  so  after  the  first  year  or  so.  Nevertheless,  I 
am  certain  that  the  swearer  or  blasphemer,  or  even  the 
person  who  delights  in  mere  foulness  of  expression,  means 
much  less  by  it  than  we  are  apt  to  imagine.  Besides 
which,  the  language  of  the  East  End,  although  bad,  is,  if 
one  may  trust  Shakespeare,  an  improvement  on  that  of 
the  time  of  Elizabeth.  Let  the  reader,  whose  over-sensi- 
tive ears  are  disturbed  by  expressions  which  fall  all  too 
easily  from  the  lips  of  the  East  End  working-man,  read 
the  common  talk  of  Falstaff  and  his  friends,  from  Prince 
to  potboy.  In  comparison  the  working-man  will  seem  a 
purist. 

Properly  understood,  the  use  of  bad  language  is  due 
to  a  desire  to  be  forcible.  To  the  East  End  enthusiast, 
the  ordinary  vehicles  of  thought  become  insufficient ; 
so  he  presses  into  service  lurid,  profane,  even  filthy 
words.  In  a  similar  quandary  the  West-ender  refers  to 
a  nuisance,  a  shipwreck,  or  a  bonnet  as  "  awful "  ;  the 
East-ender  speaks  of  a  "  bloody  "  nuisance,  shipwreck, 
bonnet,  and  so  on :  yet  the  East-ender  means  no  more 
than  the  West-ender.  A  Mayfair  mother  tells  her  child 
that  if  he  doesn't  stop  crying  she  will  whip  him  ;  an 
East  End  mother  warns  her  child  that  if  he  doesn't  stop 
crying  she  will  pulverise  him,  perform  certain  surgical 
operations  upon  him,  and  do  such  and  such  other  things 
to  him  as  may  not  be  referred  to  even  in  the  most  round- 
about fashion.  But  the  wife  of  the  gentleman  and  the 
wife  of  the  labourer  mean  the  same  thing,  namely,  an 
old-fashioned  remedy  for  naughtiness  whose  efficacy  will 
last  while  the  world  does,  "  God  strike  me  blind  !  "  sang 
an  entrancing  little  maiden  of  five  whom  I  chanced  upon, 


120  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

in  the  West  Ferry  Road,  gleefully  dancing  to  the  lilt  of 
an  impromptu  melody.  The  child  meant  nothing  by  it. 
The  phrase  sounded  musically  to  her.  Somehow  or 
other  it  fitted  her  mood  ;  that  was  all.  And  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  East  End  men  and  women  "  swear  " 
pretty  much  in  the  same  innocent  way  as  that  child 
did. 

But  it  is  the  East  End  vernacular  that  I  wish  now  to 
consider.  It  is  a  language  of  its  own,  simple  and  vigor- 
ous. Drawn  from  innumerable  sources,  high  and  low, 
classical  and  unclassical,  levying  contribution  on  the 
college-hall  and  the  drawing-room  no  less  than  on  the 
yard  and  the  workshop,  it  yet  retains  its  own  character, 
its  own  particular  flavour.  And  to  those  who  use  it  the 
polite  babblings  of  "  society  "  sound  inconceivably  ridi- 
culous and  affected. 

Decima's  mother,  now  and  again,  used  to  do  a  day's 
charing  for  us.  On  these  occasions,  as  it  afterwards 
transpired,  she  was  wont  to  improve  herself  by  commit- 
ting to  memory  such  new  words  and  phrases  as  she 
chanced  to  hear.  One  day,  in  a  burst  of  confidence, 
Decima  made  an  announcement.  "  Camilla  " — that  was 
her  sister — "  laughs  fit  to  bust  'erself  at  mother  after 
she's  been  workin'  in  this  'ouse.  Mother,  she  outs  with 
such  new-fangled,  furrin  talk  ;  and  Camilla  says, '  Oh,  I 
see  you've  been  to  the  Frees'  again.'  " 

"  Foreign  talk  ?  "  I  repeated,  thoroughly  mystified. 

"  You  know,"  explained  Decima.  "  Them  crack-jaw 
words  about  a  mile  long,  wot  nobody  knows  the 
meanin'  of." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  I  said  humbly,  as  the  truth  broke  on  me 
that  our  English  was  as  foreign  to  them  as  theirs  is  to  us. 

The  East-ender's  accent  is  not  infrequently  a  source 


LIMITATIONS  121 

of  mirth  to  the  superior  reader  of  the  comic  journal. 
Could  the  superior  reader  see  himself  as  the  East-ender 
sees  him,  his  mirth  would  come  to  an  untimely  end. 
Our  lads  used  to  be  openly  contemptuous  of  my  style 
of  speech.  One  of  their  number  was  the  notorious 
Sammy.  The  first  time  I  ventured  to  address  this 
young  gentleman  by  name,  he  turned  on  me  with 
the  rebuke — "  Sammy  !  It's  not  Sammy  ;  its  Seammy." 

Nina,  as  was  to  be  expected,  was  keen  on  my  educa- 
tion. She  took  me  severely  to  task  on  one  occasion  for 
the  manner  in  which  I  pronounced  the  word  "  Green- 
wich." In  my  blind  way  I  had  gone  through  life  talk- 
ing of  "  Grinnidge."  Nina  informed  me  that  this  was 
wrong. 

"  Oh,  is  it  ?  "  I  said,  with  my  usual  humility  ;  "  how's 
that  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  quite  simple,"  said]Nina  ;  "  G,  r,  double-e,  n 
spells  green,  don't  it  ?  W,  i,  c,  h  spells  wich,  don't  it  ? 
Very  well !  the  whole  word  spells  Green-wich,  not 
Grinnidge.  See  ?  " 

And  Nina  smiled  her  ultra-superior  smile.  There 
was  no  gainsaying  it — the  smile,  I  mean. 

The  East-ender  suffers  from  complaints  which  nobody 
else  ever  heard  of.  Where  among  his  fashionable 
patients  would  a  West  End  physician  find  such  diseases 
as,  for  instance,  "  chronitis,"  "  acronitis,"  "  instepsia," 
"  purisy,"  "  ammonia,"  "  plumonia,"  "  discussion  of 
the  brain,"  "  typhite  fever,"  "  nervous  ability,"  "  con- 
fused shoulder,"  "wind  that  flies  to  the  head,"  and 
"  haricot  veins "  ?  Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  East- 
enders  do  suffer  from  these  maladies — they  have  told 
me  so.  A  woman  in  great  distress,  whose  sick  husband 
I  had  been  hastily  summoned  to  see,  met  me  on  the 


122  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

doorstep  with — "  Oh,  he  is  bad,  pore  feller !  The  doctor 
says  he's  got  an  enlarged  progress  in  his  inside." 

If  there  be,  as  there  may  be — we  won't  deny  the 
possibility — some  confusion  somewhere,  it  is  to  be  solely 
attributed  to  the  malicious  habit  of  words,  which  connote 
very  different  things,  sounding  alike. 

The  mother  of  one  of  my  boys  was  about  to  enter 
the  estate  of  matrimony  for  the  second  time.  "  Yes, 
it's  bin  a  bit  lonely  since  Proggins  died,"  she  observed, 
reflectively  ;  "  but  things  '11  be  brighter  now.  It  is  so 
important  to  have  a  little  symphony." 

"  No !  I  don't  exactly  object  to  the  Psalms,"  Mrs. 
Pontiac  has  often  declared  to  me ;  "  but  I  do  love  them 
Ancient  and  Moral  Hymns." 

It  was  Seater,  one  of  my  first  servers  at  the  altar,  who 
invariably  referred  to  the  purificator  as  the"puripitater," 
while  his  hopeless  confusion  between  hassocks  and 
cassocks  was  a  terrible  thing  to  hear. 

A  born  East-ender  says  "  subsequently  "  for  "  conse- 
quently "  ;  he  speaks  of  good  things  being  "  far  and  few 
between,"  of  a  person  being  "  gifted  "  to  drink  ;  of  the 
Charity  Ignatian  Society,  and  of  a  "  convalenty  "  home. 
Perhaps  the  reader  may  not  be  aware  that  a  "  fetchin*  of 
beer"  is  a  quantity  such  as  one  would  ordinarily 
"  fetch,"  namely,  a  pint  or  a  quart ;  that  to  drink  it  at  a 
draught  is  to  "  mop  it  up  "  ;  that  ;^in  order  to  pay  for  it, 
one  must  have  at  least  a  "  doose  "  (twopence),  possibly 
an  "  'og  "  (a  shilling),  and  sundry  "  fadges  "  (farthings)  ; 
that  rum  is  "  Nelson's  blood  "  ;  that  "  gaffing  "  is  gam- 
bling ;  "  lumping,"  pawning  ;  an  "  aiiter,"  a  prize-fighter  ; 
a  "  tiger,"  a  flat-iron  ;  nor  may  it  have  occurred  to  him 
that  the  East  End  use  of  the  adverb  "being,"  for 
"  seeing,"  is  as  old  at  least  as  Hooker. 


LIMITATIONS  123 

Why  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  East  End  matrons  and 
maidens  imagine  their  signatures  to  be  imperfect  unless 
prefixed  by  "  Mrs."  or  "  Miss "  ?  Very  rarely  will  a 
woman  or  girl  sign  her  name  without  these  "  outward 
adornings."  Forewarned  is  forearmed ;  therefore,  when 
I  want  a  signature,  I  stipulate,  "  Simple  Christian  and 
surname,  please."  So  with  letters.  More  often  than 
not,  a  confidential,  not  to  say  affectionate,  epistle  will 
conclude — oh,  so  coldly  ! — with,  "  Yours  truly,  Mrs. 
Jones  !  "  Men  rarely  fall  into  the  muddle  ;  but  once  in 
my  experience  an  excited  bridegroom  distinguished 
himself  thus.  For  an  unfortunate  moment  my  atten- 
tion was  arrested  ;  and  when  I  turned,  there  it  was,  sure 
enough,  in  the  marriage  register — "  Mr.  Tom  Smith." 

Talking  of  names,  it  is  quite  a  common  thing  for 
dock-labourers  to  have  several  names.  I  was  once 
neatly  taken  in  by  young  Patty  O'Gorman,  whom  I  had 
refused  to  recommend  for  a  much-desired  job.  Patty 
assumed  one  of  his  many  aliases,  obtained  a  recommen- 
dation of  a  most  flattering  kind  from  a  man  who,  I  fear, 
knew  little  or  nothing  of  him,  palmed  himself  off  on  me 
as  Silas  Quorl,  and  got  the  situation.  I  had  no 
redress,  because  he  insisted  that  Silas  Quorl  was  his  real 
name. 

In  this  connection,  a  curious  custom  obtains  among 
East-enders,  namely,  that  of  discarding  one's  own  name 
and  taking  on  that  of  one's  mother  by  a  second 
marriage.  A  young  fellow  came  to  me  about  a  situation. 

"  Your  name  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Charles  Brown,"  he  answered  promptly. 

I  wrote  it  down. 

"  Address  ?  Age  ?  "  I  was  continuing,  when  he  inter- 
rupted— 


i24  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

"  Of  course,  Charles  Brown  ain't  my  real  name." 

"  Oh !  "  I  exclaimed,  pen  poised  in  air.  "  But  it's 
your  real  name  I  want,  my  lad." 

"  My  real  name  is  Robinson." 

"  Why  did  you  say  Brown  ?  "  I  asked,  writing  Robinson 
over  the  cancelled  word. 

"  Of  course,"  he  replied,  with  an  indulgent  grin  at  my 
infirmity  of  intellect,  "  my  real  name  is  Robinson ;  but 
my  right  and  proper  name  is  Brown." 

I  put  down  my  pen  in  dismay ;  and  it  was  only  after 
ten  minutes'  diligent  sifting  that  I  discovered  that  his 
mother  had  married  twice,  the  name  of  her  first  husband 
being  Brown,  and  that  of  her  second  Robinson. 

For  a  woman  to  retain  the  name  of  her  first  husband 
during  the  whole  of  her  married  life  with  a  second  is  so 
common  a  circumstance  as  to  excite  no  remark  ;  and  if 
one  is  ever  so  indiscreet  as  to  express  surprise  at  such  a 
thing,  one  is  invariably  met  with  some  such  explanation 
as  this :  "  Oh,  well !  people  don't  know  me  by  my 
new  name — it's  strange  to  'em,  you  see ;  so  I  keeps  to 
the  old  one  as  being  more  convenient." 

And  here  I  am  reminded  that  nowhere  are  the  East- 
ender's  limitations  more  pronounced  than  in  the  rela- 
tions of  the  sexes.  The  opportunities  children  have  of 
striking  up  an  acquaintance  are  unlimited.  There  are 
no  preliminaries  to  be  arranged,  no  conventions  to  be 
observed.  Before  they  are  out  of  their  'teens,  a  boy  or 
girl  may  have  had  a  dozen  such  flirtations. 

"  I'll  be  at  the  fire-station  to  night  at  eight.  Come  ?  " 
says  the  boy,  not  without  shyness. 

"  You  ain't  got  a  cheek,  you  ain't !  Anythink  else  in  a 
small  way  ?  "  answers  the  girl,  with  a  gasp  and  a  giggle. 

But  she  goes  all  the  same.     It  may  be  the  first  bit  of 


LIMITATIONS  125 

sweethearting  she  has  ever  engaged  in  ;  it  will  certainly 
not  be  the  last.  The  probability  is  that  the  two  will  get 
tired  of  one  another  in  a  month,  in  which  case  fresh 
alliances  will  be  entered  into  on  both  sides  with  bewilder- 
ing rapidity. 

You  smile  approval  on  what  looks  like  a  promising 
match.  "  A  likely  couple,"  you  say  to  yourself,  as  you 
see  them  walking  down  the  road  six  feet  apart. 
"  Where's  Alfred  ? "  you  ask,  a  week  later,  on  meeting 
the  girl. 

"  Oh  !  Alf's  orf.  It's  Jim  Johnson  now,"  she  answers 
with  undisguised  satisfaction. 

These  things  arrange  and  rearrange  themselves  very 
early  in  the  East-ender's  life ;  for,  among  the  workers 
there  is  a  premature  development  of  both  sexes 
unknown  to  the  upper  and  middle  classes.  One's 
thoughts  involuntarily  turn  to  the  south,  where  girls  are 
women  and  boys  are  men  at  thirteen. 

Tillie  B.'s  lovers — we  always  call  her  Tillie  B.  ;  I 
don't  quite  know  why — were  many  and  varied.  She 
rarely  kept  one  on  for  longer  than  a  fortnight.  It 
has  been  my  privilege  to  secure  the  following  letter, 
which  I  dutifully  pass  on  to  the  reader : — 

Miss  BAGIN, 

I  have  become  friends  again  with  an  old 
sweetheart  I  used  to  go  with,  and  I  am  going  with  her 
again.  So  our  friendship  must  cease. 

I  am, 

Yours  faithfully, 

ROBERT  STOKER. 


126  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

The  answer  to  this  formal  epistle  was  extremely 
characteristic : — 

DEAR  BOB, 

Cheer  up  !     You'll  soon  be  dead. 

Yours  ever, 

TILLIE. 

One  day  I  came  suddenly  upon  Tillie  and  young 
Beetroot  standing  in  somewhat  close  proximity  in 
the  entrance  passage  of  our  house.  Something  in  their 
looks  gave  me  pause. 

"  Why,  what ?  "  I  began,  turning  from  one  to 

the  other.  Beetroot  hung .  his  head  sheepishly,  but 
Tillie  recovered  herself  in  a  moment. 

"You  see,"  she  explained,  with  her  demurest  smile, 
"  George  and  me  is  ingaged." 

Within  three  weeks  Tillie  had  taken  to  herself 
another  sweetheart,  to  wit,  Bertie  Drayman,  a  boy  who 
might  have  posed  for  Alphonse  Daudet's  Petit  Chose. 
I  remonstrated  with  Tillie  on  her  inconstancy.  As 
usual,  she  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"  We  got  tired  of  one  another,  George  and  me,"  she 
said,  with  a  reminiscent  sigh,  "  and  we  both  thought  a 
change  advisable.  Then  Bertie  come  along,  and  wanted 
me  to  keep  company  with  him." 

"  Keep  company  ?  "  I  echoed,  aghast. 

"  Walk  out  with  him,  you  know,"  interpreted  Tillie, 
misinterpreting  my  astonishment. 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Said  I'd  ask  father." 

"  And  father  ?  " 

"  Well,  father  said  he  thought  we  was  too  young  to 
keep  company,  so  now  we  only  see  each  other." 


LIMITATIONS  127 

It  is  refreshing  to  find  a  touch  of  the  celestial  in  a 
place  so  mundane  as  the  East  End.  There  many  good 
folk  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  marriage,  although, 
to  be  quite  truthful,  they  are  not  on  that  account  "  as 
the  angels."  Marriage  is  too  civilised  for  such  persons. 
Being  primitive,  they  adopt  primitive  methods.  "  So 
many  as  are  coupled  together  otherwise  than  God's 
Word  doth  allow  are  not  joined  together  by  God,  neither 
is  their  matrimony  lawful,"  says  the  Prayer  Book.  But 
such  people  know  nothing  of  the  Prayer  Book,  and  merely 
follow  their  natural  instincts.  Only  those  who  live  in 
the  East  End  can  form  any  conception  of  the  preva- 
lence of  such  irregular  unions.  There  is  not  of  necessity 
an  absence  of  order  and  decency  in  these  relationships. 
Couples  one  has  known  and  respected  for  years,  men 
and  women  who  have  brought  up  large  families  in  a 
manner  that  defies  criticism,  will  be  discovered,  mostly 
by  accident,  to  be  lacking  the  legal  bond.  Sometimes 
there  is  a  real  impediment  to  lawful  union  ;  more  often 
there  is  none.  The  relationship  has  been  drifted  into, 
has  been  found  mutually  agreeable,  and  has  become 
fixed  by  habit.  Very  rarely,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  the 
man  deserts  the  woman  ;  still  more  rarely,  the  woman 
the  man.  But,  for  the  most  part,  where  the  union  has 
survived  the  first  outburst  of  animalism,  the  contract- 
ing parties  remain  as  faithful  to  one  another  as  those 
married  by  Church  or  State.  For  the  most  part,  neither 
father  nor  mother  is  troubled  by  qualms  of  conscience. 
Whatever  suffering  arises  from  the  irregular  union  is 
borne  by  the  child.  Never  shall  I  forget  young  Penny's 
despair  when  he  discovered  that  he  was  branded  with 
shame  which  no  effort  of  his  could  ever  wipe  out.  The 
young  man  was  stunned.  He  looked  from  one  to  the 


128  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

other  in  dumb  amazement.  Then  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
mother  whom  he  had  learned  to  love,  and,  turning 
away,  he  burst  into  tears. 

It  would  be  wise,  maybe,  to  stop  here  in  the  con- 
sideration of  an  unpleasant  subject ;  but  the  reader,  I 
hope,  will  pardon  me  for  citing  two  cases  which  are 
typical  of  very  many  in  the  East  End. 

Martha,  a  delicate-looking  girl,  was  once  respectably 
married  ;  but  that  was  not  enough  for  her.  She  must 
needs  leave  her  husband,  and  force  herself  on  a  previous 
lover.  Her  paramour  treats  her  with  the  utmost 
brutality,  frequently  turning  her  into  the  street  and 
compelling  her  to  wander  about  the  livelong  night.  He 
beats  her  unmercifully  on  the  slightest  pretext,  and 
never  allows  her  to  forget  what  she  is.  Yet  she  clings 
to  him,  defends  him  from  the  sharp  tongue-thrusts  of 
neighbours,  and  goes  on  bearing  him  children,  one  and 
all  of  whom  are  tainted  with  the  consumption  from 
which  she  herself  suffers.  How  long,  one  wonders,  will 
a  Christian  State  permit  such  degradation  within  its 
borders  ? 

The  second  instance  is  that  of  Cora.  By  sixteen  this 
girl  had  sunk  to  the  lowest  depth  of  infamy— she  was 
the  mistress  of  her  own  father.  Repeated  efforts  were 
made  to  save  her.  Many  a  walk  and  talk  have  I  had 
with  her.  How  I  have  pleaded  with  her  !  She  would 
kneel  with  me  in  prayer  in  my  study.  She  would 
solemnly  promise  to  lead  a  new  life,  and  for  a  time 
would  keep  her  oath,  and  stand  firm  and  fast  in  the  mad 
black  rush  of  temptation.  But  the  whirlpool  always 
sucked  her  down  again  ;  and  now,  in  the  midst  of  the 
riot  of  waters,  she  draws  daily  nearer  to  the  end. 

One  turns  with  relief  to  the  normal  married  life  of  the 


LIMITATIONS  129 

East-ender  ;  but  even  here  there  is  no  lack  of  the  grue- 
some. Marriage  brings  to  the  East  End  girl  a  host  of 
troubles.  Her  children  are  naturally  her  first  thought. 
She  will  starve  herself  to  get  them  food  ;  and  so  she  is 
often  compelled  to  take  a  turn  at  the  factory,  which 
exhausts  her  strength,  and  in  the  long  run  is  detrimental 
to  her  children.  Nor  is  it  exclusively  the  wife  of  the 
sluggard  or  the  drunkard  who  is  obliged  to  go  to  work. 
At  times  the  steadiest  and  most  industrious  men  are 
unable  to  keep  things  going  without  the  assistance  of 
the  "  missus."  What  with  high  rents,  large  families, 
and  the  price  of  food,  there  is  nothing  but  starvation  for 
many  an  East  End  working-man's  family  if  his  own 
wages  are  solely  relied  upon.  The  few  extra  shillings 
brought  in  by  the  wife  make  all  the  difference. 

Then  the  married  woman  in  the  East  End  is  a  slave 
to  her  husband  as  long  as  he  lives.  Should  he  un- 
happily, or  happily,  die,  she  transfers  her  vassalage  to 
her  eldest  son.  The  boy  may  be  but  eighteen,  sixteen, 
fourteen  ;  but,  insolent  and  selfish  beyond  belief,  he  will 
not  even  stop  short  of  turning  his  mother  out  of  doors. 
I  have  known  a  lad  actually  order  his  widowed  mother 
to  bed  ;  and  she  would  meekly  obey,  in  order  to  escape 
his  violence. 

Yet  it  would  not  be  correct  to  say  that  the  East  End 
woman's  married  life  is  particularly  unhappy.  On  the 
whole,  one  is  inclined  to  think  that  it  is  as  happy  as  that 
of  her  sister  in  the  West.  It  must  not  be  forgotten,  of 
course,  that  the  East  End  is  a  century  behind  the  times. 
Nowhere  else  would  a  woman  esteem  herself  happily 
married  if  her  husband  was  in  the  habit  of  blacking  her 
eyes  or  breaking  her  nose  ;  yet  such  trifling  incidents  in 
nowise  seriously  interfere  with  the  matrimonial  bliss  of 

K 


130  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

East  End  women.  Indeed,  wife-beating  is  such  a  recog- 
nised institution,  that  a  husband  would  lose  caste  should 
he  so  far  forget  his  marital  privileges  as  to  be  a  total 
abstainer  in  this  respect. 

"Wot's  up,  Bella?"  solicitously  inquired  a  young 
woman,  in  my  hearing,  of  a  friend  whose  appearance 
indicated  that  she  had  been  in  the  wars. 

"  Oh,  nothink !  On'y  my  mate  chastised  me  last 
night ;  so  I've  got  to  go  about  with  a  couple  o'  coloured 
eyes." 

"  Does  your  father  ever  wallop  you  ?  "  Lizzie  Hagger- 
ston  was  asked  by  a  small  girl  friend. 

"  Not  'arf !  I  might  as  well  be  his  wife  !  "  was  Lizzie's 
answer. 

East  End  lads  have  been  known  to  "  chastise "  their 
girls  before  marriage. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  mare  is  the  better  horse,  in 
which  case  I  am  uncertain  whether  the  condition  of  the 
"  henpecked  "  husband  is  not  more  pitiable  than  that  of 
the  "chastised"  wife. 

"  Why  has  Mrs.  Templar  taken  to  drink  ? "  I  once 
inquired  of  that  lady's  friend. 

"  Well,  she's  got  a  lot  to  put  up  with  ;  and  when  I  tell 
you  as  'ow  'er  'usband  openly  defies  'er,  you'll  under- 
stand." 

Flappery,  whose  devotion  to  his  tippling  wife  I  have 
already  described,  had  a  wretched  time  of  it.  He  was 
one  of  the  henpecked  ones.  His  wife's  moral  weakness 
made  her  incredibly  selfish.  She  would  eat  and  drink 
her  fill  in  his  presence,  without  permitting  him  a  bite  or 
a  sup  of  the  good  things  she  had  reserved  for  herself. 
Now  and  again  he  would  meekly  try  to  filch  a  slice  of 
meat  to  match  his  bread  ;  but  if  she  caught  him  at  it, 


LIMITATIONS  131 

woe  betide  him  !  Nevertheless  the  poor  wretch  was 
only  too  happy  to  lick  the  hand  that  tortured  him  ; 
and  when  his  wife  was  struck  down  with  a  loathsome 
disease,  his  love  for  her  was  very  wonderful,  passing  the 
love  of  women.  But  the  long  years  of  silent  suffering 
had  broken  his  heart ;  and  it  was  a  pitiful  wreck  of  a 
man  that  I  induced,  after  much  trouble,  to  leave  his 
dying  wife,  and  enter  the  cab  which  was  to  convey  him 
to  the  lunatic  asylum. 

The  death  of  young  Cartwright,  recorded  elsewhere, 
was  the  occasion  of  a  curious  revelation  concerning 
matters  matrimonial.  Old  Mrs.  Crusty  was  only  five 
years  younger  than  her  husband,  but  from  the  airs 
she  gave  herself  she  might  have  been  fifty. 

"  Tiresome  old  man ! "  she  would  say,  "  I  can't  be 
bothered  with  him.  'E's  so  much  older  than  me." 

"You  shouldn't  talk  like  that,"  Miss  Grales  would 
remonstrate.  "  Remember  that  you  married  him  of 
your  own  free  will." 

"  I  wouldn't  if  I'd  knowed  all.  Why,  I  never  dreamt 
as  'e  would  last  so  long." 

Now,  when  Mrs.  Crusty  heard  of  Cartwright's  death 
she  began  to  lament  with  exceeding  bitterness. 

"  Pore  feller  !  Taken  in  the  flower  of  his  young  age, 
as  you  may  say.  An'  to  think  o'  mine !  Eighty  next 
birthday,  an'  as  well  an'  'earty  as  many  a  kid  ain't. 
Look  at  'im  !  'E's  spared  ;  while — while ^" 

But  Mrs.  Crusty 's  emotion  choked  further  utterance. 


K  2 


CHAPTER  VI 
RECREATIONS 

FUNERALS  and  fights  are  the  chief  recreations  of  the 
East-ender.  The  news  of  a  funeral  flies  like  the  wind. 
Crowds  surge  to  the  chief  points  of  vantage  ;  necks  are 
craned  and  cracked  with  eagerness  ;  the  most  strident 
voices  are  hushed  to  melodramatic  whispers.  Appears 
the  solemn  cortege^  very  orthodox,  very  black,  very  ex- 
pensive, and  very  foolish.  The  deceased  most  likely 
was  a  man  of  humble  position — a  dock-labourer,  a  fac- 
tory-hand or  what  not.  No  matter  !  He  must  have  the 
finest  funeral  that  money  can  buy.  Wasn't  his  life 
insured  ? 

During  his  last  illness  I  attended  young  Shippenoy, 
providing  him  with  invalid  dainties  because  his  parents 
could  not  afford  them.  The  poor  boy  lingered  for 
several  weeks,  and  at  last  died.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
funeral  of  that  sixteen-year-old  lad.  Four  black  coaches 
crammed  with  black  mourners,  each  armed  with  a  crisp, 
new,  black-bordered  handkerchief;  eight  black  horses 
with  sweeping  black  tails,  accompanied  by  attendants  in 
shiny  black  broadcloth ;  a  magnificent  black  hearse, 
bearing,  amid  many  flowers,  the  coffin  ;  most  impressive 
of  all,  four  gentlemen,  very  solemn,  very  black  indeed, 


RECREATIONS  133 

who  rode  grandly  behind  each  of  the  four  black 
coaches ! 

Next  day  came  a  note  from  the  lad's  mother,  begging 
a  ticket  for  "  a  bit  of  coal,  or  even  a  little  grocery,"  as 
"  there  was  nothing  whatever  in  the  house."  Very  im- 
pressive indeed ! 

Funerals  are  a  terrible  tax  on  the  poor.  Yet  if  one 
ventures  to  remonstrate  ever  so  mildly,  one  is  told  that 
"  It's  little  enough  we  can  do  for  'em,  pore  things  ;  and 
if  we  can't  show  respect  for  the  dead  and  gone  by  spend- 
in'  a  bit  o'  money  on  'em,  well,  it's  precious  hard  lines, 
that's  all ! "  It  was  Hayston  who  took  his  wife  an  ex- 
pensive journey  into  the  country,  because,  had  he  buried 
her  at  the  East  London  Cemetery,  there  would  have 
been  a  balance  on  her  life  insurance ;  and  she  was  going 
to  have  every  farthing  of  it,  she  was,  if  he  knew  what 
was  what !  Something  of  fine  feeling  is  in  this,  but 
more  of  the  blind  worship  of  fashion.  There  is  not  a 
mother's  son  of  them  all  who  is  not  keenly  alive  to  the 
fact  that,  were  he  to  adopt  a  style  of  obsequies  suit- 
able to  his  position,  he  would  be  looked  down  upon  by 
every  right-hearted  and  wrong-headed  neighbour.  The 
conventionality  of  the  East-ender  in  the  matter  of 
funerals  is  paralysing.  Even  babies,  whose  lives,  un- 
happily, are  held  all  too  cheaply,  must  go  to  their  long 
home  with  infinite  pomp  and  circumstance. 

"  I  thought  as  you'd  like  to  see  'er,"  said  Mrs.  Field, 
as  she  drew  down  the  white  cloth  and  uncovered  the 
shrunken  little  face  of  her  last-born. 

I  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time.  Speech  seems  so  use- 
less in  the  presence  of  death.  But  at  last  I  murmured 
words  of  comfort :  God  was  good  ;  He  knew  best ;  we 
must  resign  ourselves.  The  woman  broke  in  rudely 


134  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

on  my  commonplaces.  "  It  ain't  so  much  the  loss  of 
'er ;  it's  the  cawst  of  'er  berrial,"  she  said,  irritably. 

That  was  a  terrible  admission,  when  you  think  of  it. 
Put  in  plain  English,  it  meant  that  the  mother  thought 
more  of  making  a  show  of  her  dead  child  than  a  joy  of 
her  living  one.  East  End  funerals  are  good  for  the 
undertaker,  bad  for  everybody  else.  For  his  own  ends 
the  undertaker  fosters  the  love  of  grandeur,  going  to  the 
length  of  publicly  parading  his  black  cavalcade  in  order 
to  excite  the  jaded  appetites  of  bereaved  ones. — "  Wot 
a  lovely  sight !  And  only  ten  pounds  !  "  But  the  loss  to 
the  poor,  both  material  and  moral,  is  quite  incalculable. 
Money  thus  squandered  could  be  used  to  so  much 
better  advantage ;  and  competition  of  the  kind  engen- 
ders vulgarity,  pride,  deceit,  and  deep  irreverence. 

At  bottom  of  it  all,  of  course,  lies  the  half-terrified 
curiosity  about  death — I  had  almost  said  the  morbid 
love  of  it.  Nor  do  I  think  I  should  be  far  wrong  if  I 
allowed  myself  the  expression.  For  morbid  the  East- 
ender's  view  of  death  undoubtedly  is.  "  Come  and  see 
'Liza  in  her  cawfin  !  "  was  the  challenge  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth  by  the  little  girls  who  had  been  'Liza's 
playmates.  And  I  find  that  to  go  and  see  'Liza,  or 
Tommy,  or  Mrs.  Smith,  or  Mrs.  Jones,  in  his  or  her 
"  cawfin  "  is  one  of  the  keenest  joys  of  old  and  young. 
You  call  on  a  neighbour  to  express  your  sympathy  with 
the  widow  and  the  fatherless  ;  and,  no  matter  what  the 
deceased  died  of,  you  are  sure  to  be  greeted  with — 
"  You'd  like  to  see  him,  wouldn't  you  ?  He  looks  bew- 
tiful." 

Death  was  the  subject  of  the  very  first  conversation  I 
had  with  Tiny.  At  that  time  she  was  tiny  indeed,  and 
very  torn  and  tattered  at  that.  Her  hair  was  always  in 


RECREATIONS  135 

wild  disorder ;  her  stockings  never,  by  any  chance, 
covered  her  legs.  The  efforts  she  used  to  make  to 
induce  those  stockings  of  hers  to  keep  up  for  ten  con- 
secutive seconds  were  beyond  all  praise,  even  as  they 
were  beyond  all  belief.  She  would  tie  them  with  odd 
bits  of  string  anyone  would  lend  her  ;  she  would  lunge  at 
them  as  she  ran,  first  one,  then  the  other  ;  she  would  hold 
them  up  with  both  hands,  and  at  such  times  her  whirling 
progress  through  space  was  a  sight  for  gods  and  men. 
But  they  always  came  slithering  down  again  ;  and  after 
the  twentieth  attempt  to  fix  them,  she  would  abandon 
the  things  in  despair,  and  go  about  naked  and  unashamed. 

On  the  day  in  question,  Tiny  came  racing  after  me  in 
her  usual  fashion  ;  and  I  knew  by  her  breathless  efforts  to 
get  alongside  that  she  bore  important  news.  In  one 
hand  she  clutched  a  great  hunk  of  bread  and  jam,  which 
she  nibbled  at  as  she  ran  ;  with  the  other  she  grabbed  at 
her  stockings.  With  a  final  spurt  she  was  at  my  side. 

"  Lit' — girl — there  !  "  she  gasped,  half-choked  with  jam 
and  breathlessness,  as  she  pointed  down  one  of  our 
riverside  streets. 

I  walked  on. 

"  Sich  a  nice  little  girl,"  pursued  Tiny,  recovering  her 
breath,  swallowing  the  remainder  of  the  bread  and  jam, 
and  just  saving  her  right-leg  stocking. 

But  I  was  deep  in  meditation,  wondering,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  what  I  should  do  about  Cora,  whose  shameful 
life  I  have  referred  to  in  the  last  chapter  ;  and,  although 
Tiny's  little  jammy  fist  was  now  in  mine,  my  thoughts 
were  far  away. 

"  Sich  a  nice  little  girl,"  repeated  the  child,  not  without 
reproach. 

I  said  I  was  so  glad  she  was  nice  ;  and  off  went  my 


136  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

thoughts  again  after  the  wandering  sheep.  Presently  I 
felt  a  tug  at  my  coat.  "  Well  ?  "  I  looked  down  at  the 
child,  and  discovered  to  my  surprise  that  her  eyes  were 
filled  with  awe  and  wonder. 

"  I  seed  her.  She  was  wite — wite  as  a  ghost,"  said 
she  in  a  stage  -whisper. 

By  this  time  I  had  reached  the  house  where  Cora 
lived.  I  knocked  and  was  admitted.  Just  as  I  was 
closing  the  door  behind  me,  I  felt  an  obstruction,  and, 
looking  down,  discovered  Tiny's  foot. 

"  Hitter  Fee  ! "  she  whispered. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  I  asked,  with  growing  impatience. 

"  Sich  a  nice  little  girl,"  observed  Tiny,  going  through 
a  sort  of  dumb  show,  and  letting  the  refractory  stockings 
slide  right  down  into  her  loosely-laced  boots.  "  Boo- 
tiful  nice  little  girl !  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  so  you  told  me,"  said  I,  endeavouring 
to  close  the  door,  and  again  finding  the  obstructing  foot. 
"  Now,  look  here  !  " — I  was  really  getting  angry. 

"  Mitter  Fee !  " 

"Well,  well!  what  is  it?" 

"  Nice  little  girl— &?0-tiful  nice."  Tiny  fitted  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  on  to  those  of  the  other,  slowly  parted  them, 
gradually  extended  the  space  between  them  to  her  two 
arms'  length,  and  said,  with  a  shivering  motion  of  her 
whole  body  that  was  intensely  dramatic — "  Oh,  she  is 
stretched  out  so  long.  Dead  /" 

This  interest  of  Tiny's  in  death  is  typical  of  the  attitude 
of  all  East-enders.  Death  appeals  to  them  in  a  way 
perfectly  incomprehensible  to  other  people.  The  fascina- 
tion of  it  is,  as  I  said,  morbid  ;  it  is  also  infectious* 
When  Cappercorn,  the  Victoria  Park  preacher,  met 
his  death  in  a  railway  accident,  a  certain  section  of 


RECREATIONS  137 

the  population  went  crazy.  People  who  had  never  in 
their  lives  spoken  to  the  good  man  made  his  funeral  an 
occasion  of  bacchanalian  revelry.  On  the  return  from 
the  cemetery,  a  woman  and  a  child  were  killed  and 
several  persons  were  injured,  Mrs.  Grand  attempted  to 
poison  herself,  and  Nancy  tried  to  jump  into  the  dock 
with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

So  morbid  is  the  love  of  death,  that  occasionally  one 
finds  the  East-ender  anticipating  it  in  the  most  extra- 
ordinary fashion.  One  Sunday  morning,  Little  Billee, 
as  I  used  to  call  him,  arrived  in  the  choir-vestry  magni- 
ficently attired  in  black — black  boots,  black  trousers, 
black  waistcoat,  black  jacket,  black  tie,  black  hat. 

"Hullo!  here's  a  swell!"  I  exclaimed,  irreverently. 
Then,  suddenly  impressed  by  Little  Billee's  funereal 
appearance,  I  added,  "  I  hope  you're  not  in  mourning 
for  anyone." 

The  boy  hung  his  head.     "  Not  yet"  he  murmured. 

I  was  so  dumbfounded  that  I  could  ask  no  more 
questions  then  ;  but  I  ascertained  the  facts  from  a  sister 
on  the  following  day.  "  Well,"  she  explained,  "  it's  like 
this :  as  the  doctors  give  mother  up,  and  Billy's  been 
wanting  a  new  suit  for  a  long  time,  father  thought  as 
'ow  it  would  save  money  like  if — see  ?  " 

I  did  see,  bade  the  girl  a  hurried  adieu,  and  tumbled 
into  the  fresh  air. 

Did  the  reader  ever  hear  of  a  clergyman  paying  a 
formal  visit  to  a  corpse  ?  I  have  done  that.  Two  days 
after  the  incident  just  related,  I  was  hastily  summoned 
by  Little  Billee's  sister  to  "  see  mother."  I  hurried  to 
the  house,  expecting  to  find  the  poor  woman  in  articulo 
mortis.  "  How  is  she  ?  "  I  inquired,  as  well  as  want  of 
breath  would  permit. 


138  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

"  Gone  !  "  answered  the  daughter,  shaking  her  head. 

"  Dead  ! "  interpreted  the  husband  and  Little  Billee 
together. 

"  Poor  thing  ! "  I  exclaimed.  "  So  she  has  passed 
away  since  you  came  for  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  Not  at  all ! "  was  the  answer.  "  She  was 
dead  then,  but  we  thought  as  how  you'd  like  to  see  her 
all  the  same." 

There  must  have  been  something  weird  about  this 
family;  for  it  was  Little  Billee  who  begged  off  from 
choir-practice  "  to  go  and  see  grandmother." 

"  Is  your  grandmother  ill  ?  "  I  inquired,  solicitously. 

"  She's  dead,"  said  Little  Billee. 

Perhaps  enough  has  been  said  to  convince  the  most 
sceptical  reader  that  I  am  in  no  way  using  the  language 
of  hyperbole  in  saying  that  funerals  are  one  of  the 
chief  recreations  of  the  East-ender.  He  revels — no 
other  word  is  adequate — he  simply  revels  in  death. 

And  second  only  to  his  love  of  death  is  his  love  of  fight- 
ing. Fighting  of  a  kind  is  bred  in  his  bone  and  marrow.  In 
my  early  days  in  the  East  End,  it  was  not  unusual  for 
a  free  fight  to  take  place  in  the  midst  of  the  solemnities 
of  Sunday  School ;  and  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of 
two  young  ragamuffins  rolling  over  and  over  in  what 
appeared  to  be  a  life-and-death  struggle  on  the  very 
steps  of  the  altar.  If  the  child  does  not  grow  up  to  be 
a  fighter,  the  fault  certainly  does  not  lie  with  the  parents. 
It  is  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  boy  to  be  beaten  because 
he  has  not  the  pluck  to  retaliate.  I  have  often  heard 
a  mother  say  to  her  little  son,  whom  a  schoolfellow  had 
thumped  all  too  vigorously  :  "  You  'it  'im  back,  d'  you 
'ear  ?  or  I'll  tell  your  father  of  you,  my  boy  !  "  or,  "If  you 
don't  give  him  one  in  the  jaw,  I'll  pay  you — now  then !  " 


RECREATIONS  139 

East  End  children  are  taught  to  be  fighters,  but 
fighters  of  a  kind.  One  suffocating  day  in  midsummer, 
two  little  girls  were  carrying  on  a  confidential  conversa- 
tion just  below  my  study  window.  "  We  give  your 
Johnny  a  good  'idin'  when  he  come  out  o'  school  this 
mornin',  we  did,"  observed  the  first  little  girl. 

"  Garn  ! "  objected  the  second  ;  then,  with  contempt 
born  of  conviction,  "  you  couldn't'' 

"  Yes,  we  could  ;  and  we  did,  too." 

"  Not  you  ! "  retorted  the  second  little  girl,  with  a 
brave  show  of  assurance ;  then,  her  curiosity  over- 
mastering her,  "  Well,  'ow  did  you,  then  ?  " 

"  We  chucked  bricks  at  'im,"  said  the  first  little  girl, 
triumphantly. 

The  fighting  instinct  is  strong  in  the  East-ender ;  the 
sporting  instinct,  weak.  He  "  chucks  bricks."  Cruelty 
to  animals  was  very  common  when  I  first  came  to  the 
East  End.  The  appearance  of  a  dog  would  be  the  signal 
for  a  volley  of  hard  words  and  harder  stones.  Many  a 
terrified  cat  could  be  seen  in  those  days  madly  careering 
down  the  street  with  a  tin  can  tied  to  its  tail.  Com- 
plaints used  to  reach  me  of  ducks  and  hens  done  to 
death  in  cold  blood.  Despite  the  fact  that  every  male 
East-ender  is  a  footballer  born,  the  average  man  or  boy, 
in  a  hand-to-hand  conflict  off  the  field,  has  no  idea  of 
confining  his  attention  to  that  part  of  his  adversary 
above  the  belt.  I  mean  that  while  he  adores  horseplay, 
he  does  not  bother  about  fairplay.  Several  instances  of 
this  moral  perversity  occur  to  me. 

It  was  the  night  of  our  return  from  one  of  our 
Sunday  School  excursions.  The  long  line  of  brakes 
had  just  drawn  up  ;  the  cornets  were  still  blaring  "  For 
Auld  Lang  Syne " ;  the  fireworks  were  hissing  and 


1 40  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

spitting ;  and  the  street  was  ablaze  with  crimson  and 
green.  As  I  was  shaking  hands  with  this  one  and  that, 
I  felt  a  gentle  tap  on  my  shoulder.  Wheeling  round,  I 
found  myself  face  to  face  with  a  number  of  young 
fellows,  whom  I  at  once  perceived  to  be  on  mischief 
bent.  One  gets  used  to  surprises  in  the  East  End  ;  and 
so,  with  a  smile,  I  began  chatting  to  them  in  an  ordinary 
manner,  and,  after  a  few  minutes'  conversation,  bade 
them  good-night.  I  was  turning  away  when  there  came 
another  tap  on  my  shoulder.  I  looked  round,  quietly 
remonstrated,  and  walked  on.  Tip-tap,  tip-tap,  came 
sundry  little  strokes  in  rapid  succession.  I  had  had  a 
fatiguing  day ;  I  was  dead-beat ;  and  I  suddenly  lost 
my  temper.  Swinging  up  my  right  arm  and  whirling 
on  my  heel,  I  struck  out  at  chance,  and  narrowly  missed 
a  lanky  lad  with  a  pasty  face. 

"  Was  it  you  ?  "  I  cried,  in  considerable  wrath. 

"  Not  me.  I  never  touched  you,"  answered  the  pasty- 
faced  one. 

"You,  then?"  I  said,  turning  to  a  red-haired  fellow 
of  twenty-five  or  so. 

"  Never  lifted  a  finger,"  he  assured  me. 

My  temper  got  the  better  of  me.  "  Then  who  was  it? 
If  the  coward  who  struck  me  behind  my  back  will  have 
the  manliness  to  do  the  same  to  my  face,  I  shall  have 
the  greatest  pleasure  in  life  in  knocking  him  down  !  " 

Not  a  fellow  stirred,  but  a  queer  look  crept  from  one 

to  another.  "And  the  Lord  said  unto  Moses " 

chuckled  a  voice  in  the  crowd. 

Another  example  of  what  I  mean.  One  afternoon  I 
fell  in  with  a  couple  of  men  fighting  in  a  by-street. 
One  warrior  was  all  but  dead-drunk  ;  the  other  was  as 
sober  as  I  was  myself.  As  I  came  up,  the  drunken  man 


RECREATIONS  141 

swayed  under  the  onset  of  his  opponent,  and  crashed  to 
the  pavement.  He  was  bleeding  and  bruised  ;  he  was 
dazed  with  drink  and  the  shock  of  the  fall.  But  half- 
a-dozen  men  ran  in,  set  him  on  his  feet,  clapped  him  on 
the  back,  and  urged  him  to  go  at  it  again.  Cowed  as  he 
was,  he  would  not  show  the  white  feather.  With  an 
oath  he  swayed  forward  to  the  unequal  contest.  I 
thought  it  time  to  interfere.  "  You're  not  fit  to  fight. 
Come  away  !  Wait  until  you  are  sober,"  I  said. 

"  What  the  hell  is  it  to  do  with  you  ?  "  objected  one  of 
the  crowd.  "  You  mind  your  own  business." 

"  It  isn't  sport,  friends,"  I  said,  "  and  you  know  it. 
You've  no  right  to  pit  a  poor  drunken  chap  like  that 
against  a  man  who  hasn't  got  a  drop  of  drink  in  him. 
.  .  .  You  go  home,  my  boy,  and  sleep  it  off." 

The  backer  of  the  sober  man,  who  was  himself  more 
than  half-seas  over,  came  up  and  began  to  argue.  I 
placed  my  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  said,  "  I'm  sober ; 
you're  not.  Would  you  call  it  sport  if  I  treated  you 
like  this  ?  "  With  a  smart  shove  I  sent  him  flying,  but 
caught  him  before  he  had  time  to  measure  his  length. 
The  argument  seemed  to  convince  him. 

This  lack  of  courage  takes  some  curious  forms.  For 
instance,  when  an  East-ender  wishes  to  avenge  himself 
for  an  injury,  he  does  so  indirectly.  If  you  are  so 
unhappy  as  to  offend  him,  he  immediately  proceeds  to 
talk  at  you  through  the  medium  of  an  accommodating 
neighbour ;  or  he  ensconces  himself  in  the  midst  of  his 
pals  and  freely  expresses  his  opinion  of  you  ;  or  he  lies 
low  indoors  and  shouts  rude  remarks  at  you  as  you  pass 
by.  The  obvious  advantage  of  this  method  is  that 
everybody  is  at  once  acquainted  with  the  matter  in 
dispute,  and  is  prepared  to  deliver  judgment  upon  it. 


1 42  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

Similarly,  lads  have  no  notion  of  preferring  their 
requests  in  a  direct  manner.  Say  they  want  you  to 
start  a  football  club.  Do  they  ask  you  to  ?  Not  a  bit  of 
it !  The  first  intimation  you  receive  that  something  is 
amiss  is  their  particularly  riotous  behaviour.  If  you  are 
new  to  the  work,  you  commit  the  indiscretion  of  turning 
out  the  ringleaders  and  making  lifelong  enemies ;  but 
if  you  know  the  East  End  lad,  you  meditate :  "  Now,  I 
wonder  what  they  want  ?  "  You  guess — to  yourself ;  and 
when  you  have  satisfied  yourself  that  you  have  guessed 
aright,  you  say  in  your  most  ingenuous  manner :  "  Ah, 
by-the-way,  I  think  it  would  be  a  capital  idea  to  start  a 
football  team  this  winter.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

A  fight  between  women  will  draw  even  a  larger  crowd 
than  one  between  men  ;  for  it  is  a  far  more  savage 
business.  Nails  are  used  instead  of  fists ;  hysterical 
shrieks  are  uttered  in  place  of  modified  and  rather 
dignified  grunts.  There  is  less  force  about  it,  but  more 
cunning ;  less  bruising,  but  more  blood.  I  have  seen  a 
woman  score  another's  face  from  brow  to  chin  with  her 
ten  fingers ;  and  I  have  seen  another  tear  handfuls  of 
hair  from  her  opponent's  head.  To  add  to  the  horror  of 
a  fight  between  women,  the  language  is  superlative. 

But  perhaps  the  worst  kind  of  fight  is  between  a  man 
and  a  woman.  That  is  so  shameful,  so  unnatural,  so 
ferociously  cruel,  that  it  beggars  description.  Never- 
theless, such  a  fight  is  best  left  alone.  Benevolent 
interference  merely  aggravates  matters.  The  woman 
invariably  sides  with  the  man,  even  though  he  has  been 
using  her  shockingly,  and  pours  her  vials  of  wrath  upon 
the  head  of  her  would-be  defender.  A  typical  instance 
occurs  to  me. 

About  two  o'clock,  one  Sunday  morning,  that  amiable 


RECREATIONS 

couple,  Carmen  and  her  husband,  were  engaged  in 
a  domestic  difference  just  outside  our  house.  The 
noise  of  it  kept  us  all  awake ;  otherwise  it  was  quite 
tolerable  for  half  an  hour  or  so.  But  when  the  man 
began  banging  the  woman's  head,  and  in  the  midst  of 
her  piercing  shrieks  we  could  hear,  all  too  plainly,  the 
thud,  thud  of  her  poor  skull  in  contact  with  Mother 
Earth,  my  wife  could  contain  herself  no  longer.  Fling- 
ing up  the  window,  she  delivered  herself  unreservedly 
on  the  subject  of  the  gentleman's  ungentlemanly 
behaviour.  The  man  paused  in  the  operation  of 
murdering  his  better-half,  and  stared  stupidly  in  the 
direction  of  the  terrible  voice ;  but  the  woman  sprang 
to  her  feet  and,  coming  close  under  the  window,  poured 
forth  such  a  volley  of  abuse  as  I  have  rarely  heard 
equalled.  Working  herself  into  a  fury,  she  ventured  to 
question  our  adherence  to  the  sixth,  seventh,  eighth,  and 
ninth  commandments  ;  insisted  on  our  blood  relation- 
ship to  cats,  cows,  swine,  and  other  doubtful  animals ; 
and  concluded  with  the  following  unanswerable 
challenge :  "  Can't  my  'usband  do  bloody  well  what  he 
likes  with  his  own  ?  " 

Calling  on  Mrs.  Dackrush  one  day,  I  found  her  just 
returned  from  a  holiday.  "  Been  down  to  my  old  'ome," 
she  explained,  smilingly.  The  freshness  of  the  country 
seemed  to  cling  to  her  ;  she  apparently  had  not  had  the 
courage  to  doff  her  smart  Sunday  attire.  I  had  never 
seen  Mrs.  Dackrush  look  better  than  she  did  that  after- 
noon. I  felt  quite  proud  of  her  as  one  of  the  earliest 
members  of  my  Guild  of  Kindness.  I  thought  to 
myself,  "  Now  here's  a  nice  little  proof  of  my  constant 
contention  that  these  people  accept  their  sordid  lives 
only  under  the  compulsion  of  grim  necessity.  The 


144  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

moment  they  free  themselves  from  their  environment, 
they  become  new  creatures."  The  meditation  was 
excusable ;  for,  indeed,  Mrs.  Dackrush  did  look  "  quite 
the  lady,"  as  a  friendly  neighbour  put  it. 

"  I'm  glad  that  you've  been  to  your  childhood's 
haunts,"  I  said,  grandiloquently.  "  And  what  did  you  do 
with  yourself,  now  ?  " 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Dackrush,  her  face 
radiant.  "  The  very  fust  thing  as  I  does  when  I  gets 
down  to  my  old  'ome  is  to  give  that  old  sneak  a  good 
'idin'." 

"  What  old  sneak  ?  "  I  asked,  aghast. 

"  Haven't  I  never  telled  you  about  Mrs.  Gammin?  Her 
what  sneaked  about  me  when  I  was  a  little  'un,  and  got 
me  a  birchin'  ?  I  sweared  then  that  when  I  was  growed 
up  I'd  be  even  with  'er.  So  every  time  I  goes  down  to 
my  old  'ome  the  fust  thing  I  does  is  to  go  to  'er  cottage 
and  give  her  a  jolly  good  'idin'." 

It  was  a  minute  before  I  could  get  speech.  "  But  she 
must  be  an  old,  old  woman  by  now?  " 

"  That  she  is,  as  old  as  they  make  'em  ;  but  her  age 
don't  make  no  difference  to  me.  She's  got  to  have  her 
'idin'  all  the  same,  and  she  knows  it." 

"  And  how  old  might  she  be  ?  "  I  asked,  feeling  that  I 
was  dreaming. 

"  Seventy-six  come  Michaelmas.  It's  just  thirty-five 
year  since  she  played  me  that  dirty  trick  ;  but  I  ain't 
the  one  to  forget  a  thing  like  that." 

"  But,"  I  began,  still  dazed  and  incredulous,  "  do  I 
understand  you  to  say ?  " 

"You  understand  me  to  say,  Mr.  Free,  that  I  gives 
Mrs.  Gammin  a  thrashin'  every  time  I  goes  to  my  old 


RECREATIONS  145 

"  But,  my  good  woman,  have  you  no  pity  ?  " 

"  Pity  ?  Not  me !  Let  them  have  pity  wot  can 
afford  it.  It  ain't  for  the  likes  of  me  to  indulge  in  no 
pity.  She  gets  her  'idin'  right  enough  every  time  I  goes 
down  to  my  old  'ome,  and  she  expects  it." 

And  with  that  Mrs.  Dackrush  removed  her  best  bonnet 
of  demurest  violet,  glanced  round  the  kitchen  with  a  sigh 
of  serenest  satisfaction,  and  observed  that  there  was 
nothing  like  a  holiday  to  put  a  body  in  good  spirits  ! 

"  Blessed  are  the  merciful ;  for  they  shall  obtain 
mercy." 

One  day,  when  Mrs.  Sopster  was  "  rather  excited,"  as 
people  say  here,  some  one  mentioned  her  ancient  enemy, 
Mrs.  Boggle.  Mrs.  Sopster  waxed  frantic.  I  urged 
patience  and  forgiveness.  All  in  vain.  Presently,  as 
her  eyes  wandered  round  the  room,  they  fell  on  a  highly 
coloured  picture  of  Christ  on  the  cross.  A  great  calm 
seemed  suddenly  to  possess  her. 

"  It's  quite  right,  wot  you  tell  me  about  being  for- 
givin',"  she  said,  in  a  wonderfully  subdued  voice ;  "  it's 
only  right  and  proper.  Look  at  that ! "  She  pointed 
to  the  ugly  little  print.  I  looked  obediently.  Need- 
less to  say,  I  was  delighted  at  the  change  that  had  come 
over  her.  "  Look  at  that !  "  she  repeated  with  energy, 
thrusting  forth  a  forefinger.  "  Wot  did  He  do  ?  " 

"  You  know,"  I  answered,  gravely. 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  /  know.     He  forgave  His  enemies." 

I  nodded. 

"  He  forgave  His  enemies,"  repeated  Mrs.  Sopster, 
but — "  she  brought  her  clenched  fist  down  on  the  table 
with  a  crash—"  I'm  blowed  if  I  do  ! " 

Funerals  and  fights  are  the  chief  recreations  of  the 
East-ender.  But  he  has  other  amusements  less  grue- 

L 


146  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

some  and  less  gross  than  these ;  and  among  them, 
(without  counting  fires  and  football),  the  serious  drama, 
dancing,  and  singing  take  the  highest  place  in  popular 
favour. 

Football  is  not  a  recreation  in  the  East  End  ;  it  is  a 
religion.  Its  devotees  are  to  be  numbered  by  hundreds 
of  thousands.  Its  worship  is  cultivated  with  a  whole- 
hearted devotion  which  is  as  rare  as  it  is  astonishing.  In 
days  when  zeal  for  the  old  faiths  is  growing  cold,  the 
apologist  can  point  triumphantly  to  at  least  one  cult 
which  not  only  shows  no  sign  of  decadence,  but  which 
exhibits  an  exuberance  of  vitality  unintelligible  except 
on  the  supposition  that  it  is  indeed  the  power  unto 
salvation  for  all  future  ages  ! 

As  to  fires,  so  popular  elsewhere,  they  are  so  common 
in  the  East  End  as  to  excite  no  special  interest.  It  is 
such  an  ordinary  experience  for  the  engine  to  come 
tearing  down  the  street,  that  one  scarcely  turns  to 
see  it.  A  huge  fire  blazed  for  hours  within  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  my  house  and  the  main  road,  but  it 
caused  no  sensation  whatever.  A  lady  friend,  who  had 
had  the  temerity  to  make  an  afternoon  call  on  us,  was 
on  her  way  back  to  the  station  when  she  encountered  a 
great  blaze  in  the  West  India  Docks.  So  impressed 
was  she  by  the  awful  grandeur  of  the  spectacle,  that  she 
was  strongly  tempted  to  turn  back  and  inform  us  of  it. 
But,  as  she  was  pressed  for  time,  she  commissioned  a 
girl  well  known  to  us  to  carry  the  news ;  and  the  girl 
thought  so  little  of  the  matter  that  she  actually  forgot 
all  about  it. 

But  the  serious  drama,  dancing,  and  singing  are  real, 
although  minor  modes,  of  recreation.  The  performances 
at  the  theatrte,  sa  he  pictorial  posters  testify,  are  unique. 


RECREATIONS 

Here  a  convict  is  throttling  an  elderly  gentleman  in 
evening  dress.  There  a  juvenile  gentleman,  with  a 
moustache  impossible  at  his  age,  also  in  evening  dress, 
is  smashing  plates  over  a  friend's  head,  and  all  is  blood 
and  crockery.  Elsewhere  a  lovely  lady,  very  much  in, 
or  out  of,  evening  dress,  is  stabbing  her  truly  wedded 
husband  in  evening  dress,  while  the  youth  who  has 
caused  all  the  trouble  (he  is  in  evening  dress)  is  engaged 
in  swallowing  an  enormous  dose  of  prussic  acid.  Escaped 
convicts,  ticket-of-leave  men,  murderers,  highway  robbers, 
and  villains  of  every  kind  and  degree  bulk  largely  in 
these  plays.  The  East-ender's  drama  is  like  his  litera- 
ture— lurid. 

The  great  art  of  dancing  is  wonderfully  represented 
in  the  East  End.  As  everybody  knows,  and  nobody  can 
explain,  children  and  young  people  revel  in  the  exercise, 
disporting  themselves  with  a  grace  and  abandon  that 
are  not  to  be  found  elsewhere.  Where  do  they  learn? 
Who  can  tell?  Possibly  the  pantomime  may  be  a 
training-ground  for  some  East  End  children,  but  not  for 
many.  I  certainly  never  heard  of  a  Millwall  child 
performing  on  the  stage ;  and  I  very  much  doubt 
whether  one  such  child  in  a  hundred  has  ever  been  to  a 
theatre,  even  as  a  spectator.  Yet  street-dancing  in 
Millwall  is  a  delight  to  those  who  have  eyes  for  the 
beautiful.  Accurate,  refined,  and  rhythmical,  it  is  the 
outward  expression  of  that  joy  of  life  which,  peculiar  to 
the  East-ender,  is  scarce  extinguished  after  years  of 
untold  hardships.  On  all  great  occasions — and  what 
would  be  a  small  occasion  elsewhere  is  a  great  one  in 
the  East  End — this  joy  of  life  gushes  forth  spon- 
taneously, A  temperance  demonstration  will  evoke  it, 
or  a  Sunday  School  excursion,  or  a  yard  beano,  or  a 

L  2 


148  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

women's  outing,  or  a  religious  procession.  Where  the 
occasion  is,  there  are  the  dancers.  Ragged  and  hungry 
they  may  be,  but  they  will  dance  with  a  religious 
fervour  which  puts  to  shame  the  paltry  evolutions  of  the 
drawing-room. 

Barbara  Was  at  once  our  pride  and  our  pet.  Although 
only  six  years  old,  she  was  much  sought  after  for  all 
local  entertainments.  I  can  see  her  as  I  write,  diminu- 
tive, dainty,  precise,  with  a  definite  intention  in  her 
manner  that  struck  the  stranger  as  almost  uncanny. 
Dancing  was  a  serious  matter  to  Barbara.  On  her  knees 
by  her  bedside,  in  her  long,  white*  nightgown,  with  hands 
reverently  clasped  and  eyes  upraised,  she  would  pray 
about  it :  "  Please,  dear  Lord,  help  me  to  dance  well  to- 
morrow, and  make  me  a  good  girl.  Amen."  Asked 
whether  dancing  before  so  many  people  ever  made  her 
nervous,  Barbara  answered  in  her  precise  way,  "  No ; 
because  I  have  asked  God  to  help  me." 

An  East  End  ball-room  is  a  pleasant  sight.  The 
form  is  excellent,  and  a  great  contrast  to  the  violent 
scrambles  that  pass  for  dancing  in  many  a  high-class 
suburb.  The  lads  are  occasionally  somewhat  of 
hobbledehoys ;  but  the  girls  are  almost  invariably  grace- 
ful. The  scene  is  a  charming  one,  all  colour,  light, 
youthful  gaiety  and  harmonious  movement.  Farrow,  of 
"  Lovely  Man  "  fame,  stood  transfixed  when  I  suddenly 
introduced  him  to  one  of  our  "  hops."  "  It  is  amazing," 
he  said  ;  "  I  confess  that  I  never  imagined  anything 
like  it."  He  was  right ;  the  thing  is  unimaginable — 
must  be  seen  to  be  believed.  It  is  a  replica,  in 
cheaper  but  not  less  attractive  metal,  of  a  similar 
function  in  the  West.  As  Potter  said  to  Miss  Sacker- 
by,  "  What  more  could  they  want  ?  They've  every- 


RECREATIONS  149 

thing  that  heart  can  desire,  even  to  powder,  puff,  and 
hairpins." 

There  exists  in  all  of  us,  I  suppose,  in  our  unregene- 
rate  moments,  a  desire  to  monopolise  life  and  think  we 
are  doing  God  service  thereby.  Occasionally,  I  have 
caught  myself  napping  in  this  respect.  I  remember 
overhearing  the  following  conversation  between  Mylie 
and  a  caller  : — 

"  I  want  to  know  about  Free's  dancing-class,  when  it's 
held,  and  so  on." 

"  Thursday,"  answered  Mylie,  with  her  usual  brevity. 

"  That'll  suit  me  all  right.  Tell  Mr.  Free  I'll  join. 
I  can  dance,  you  know ;  I've  had  lessons.  But  a  girl 
gets  a  bit  rusty,  and  it's  so  awkward  not  to  know  the 
riggers  when  you  go  into  Society." 

I  summoned  Mylie.     "  Who  was  that  ?  " 

"  Sally  Friggins." 

"  Poor  Sally  ! "  I  began  ;  but  a  doubtful,  smouldering 
light  behind  Mylie's  spectacles,  and  a  twitching  of  her 
lips,  reminded  me  of  an  extraordinary  outburst  of  mirth 
but  a  week  before.  "  Thank  you,"  I  said  ;  and  as  the 
girl  withdrew,  I  finished  my  thought — "  Poor  Sally ! 
Works  at  the  factory  for  eighteenpence  a  day,  and 
goes  into  *  Society '  in  the  evening !  Poor,  pathetic 
Sally ! " 

And  yet,  why  not  ?  After  all,  have  not  she  and  her 
peers  as  much  right  to  "  Society  "  as  anybody  ?  Why 
shouldn't  Sally  enjoy  herself  in  her  own  way  ?  Nowhere 
is  the  bitter  fruit  of  our  brutal  class  distinctions  more 
evident  than  in  the  jealous  tendency  to  "  corner "  the 
joys  of  life.  What  is  to  be  deprecated  with  some  show 
of  reason  is  the  exaltation  of  mere  amusement  at  the 
expense  of  everything  else.  There  are  advanced  clubs 


150  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

in  East  London  which  give  variety  entertainments  on 
Sunday  mornings,  when  old-fashioned  folk  are  at  their 
prayers.  One  does  not  wish  to  be  narrow-minded  ;  but 
the  idea  of  short-skirt  dancing  and  beer-swilling  in  the 
noontide  glare  of  our  peaceful  English  Sunday  is 
somewhat  upsetting  even  to  the  hardiest  of  us.  But 
Sally,  although  no  church-goer,  would  as  lief  patronise 
such  a  place  as  go  barefoot. 

The  East-ender's  singing  is  not  so  good  as  his  danc- 
ing, but  he  seems  to  get  quite  as  much  pleasure  out  of 
it.  It  is  not  always  so  enjoyable  to  the  listener,  how- 
ever. The  singing  of  the  gangs  of  lads  at  the  street 
corners  used  to  be  one  of  the  most  particular  character- 
istics of  Millwall ;  and  the  uncouth  noise  was  apt  to 
give  the  stranger  a  curious  sense  of  discomfort.  The 
sudden,  unexpected  roar  of  coarse  and  discordant  voices, 
in  the  darkness  and  desolation  of  the  place,  was  start- 
ling and  bewildering.  When  a  certain  social  movement 
was  inaugurated  here,  the  servants  were  so  terrified  at 
the  nocturnal  "  singing "  that  it  was  difficult  to  gain 
admission  to  the  house  after  dark  ;  and,  during  a  livelier 
evening  than  usual,  dear  old  Mrs.  Neighbours,  who  had 
been  "  West "  all  her  life,  was  so  overcome  with  joy  at 
an  unexpected  call  from  my  wife,  that  she  forthwith 
fell  a-sobbing  on  her  shoulder. 

Still  more  unnerving  is  the  drunken  home-coming  of 
a  festive  party  at  one  or  two  in  the  morning.  The 
shrill  shrieks  of  the  women,  the  monotonous  howlings 
of  the  men,  the  draggling  and  shuffling  of  irresolute, 
feet,  the  savage  screams  which  crash  into  and  shatter 
the  sentimental  cadences  of  some  well-known  melody, 
combine  to  form  a  horror  of  noise  more  abominable 
than  anything  I  have  ever  imagined. 


RECREATIONS 


i  ci 


5 


I  was  at  one  time  under  the  common,  but  erroneous, 
impression  that  in  the  matter  of  music  the  East-ender 
knows  what  is  good.  He  knows  nothing  of  the  kind. 
How  should  he  ?  In  my  ignorance  I  would  get  friends 
of  mine  who  happened  to  be  endowed  with  the  gift  of 
song  to  come  and  give  us  the  benefit  of  their  skill,  but  I 
had  to  abandon  that  plan.  What  happened  at  my  con- 
certs was  this.  My  vocal  friends  would  get  on  the  plat- 
form, one  after  another,  and  sing  beautifully,  their 
brilliant  performances  being  received  with  discreet,  very 
discreet,  applause.  At  the  end  of  twenty  minutes  of  this 
diplomatic  fooling,  some  one  would  suddenly  call  out, 
"  Bill  wants  to  sing  *  Tim's  little  doner.' "  Then  another 
would  shout,  "  No  !  Polly's  goin'  to  give  us  '  Ow  'e  kissed 
'er  in  the  gloaminV  "  On  that  there  would  arise  a  very 
babel  of  voices  :  "  Go  on,  Polly  !  "  "  Buck  up,  Bill ! ' 
"  Get  aiit,  all  the  lot  o'  you !  I'm  not  goin'  to  sing  no 
silly  songs,"  "  You  give  up  shovin'  o'  me,  that's  all ! " 
"  I've  got  a  cold  in  my  'ead,  I  tell  you."  After  five 
minutes  of  wrangling,  Bill  would  appear  on  the  platform, 
flushed,  and  askew  as  to  collar  and  tie.  With  arms 
behind  him,  head  on  one  side,  eyes  half  shut,  left  leg 
stiff  as  cast-iron,  right  leg  bent  and  wriggling,  he  would 
emit  sundry  violent  jets  of  sound,  for  all  the  world  as  if 
they  had  been  shot  from  a  gun.  The  audience  would 
take  up  the  chorus  until  the  whole  place  rocked  again  ; 
and,  in  the  midst  of  the  yelling  excitement,  my  musical 
friends  would  feel  so  much  out  of  it  that  they  would 
humbly  pack  up  their  things,  insisting  that  they  really 
must  be  going. 

I  once  asked  Mylie  if  she  were  fond  of  singing. 

"  Most,"  was  her  answer ;  "  but  not  of  church  singing. 
Them  things  you  call  anthems,  they  goes  up  and  down 


152  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

up  and  down,  all  mixed,  joggled  and  difficult-like, 
so  that  I  can't  make  'em  out  nohow." 

Mylie  here  voiced  a  fairly  general  opinion,  I  fancy. 

On  another  occasion  I  was  expatiating,  somewhat 
verbosely,  on  the  rendering  of  an  important  solo  by 
one  of  our  choristers,  and  begged  Mylie's  opinion  of  it. 

"  Not  'arf  bad,"  declared  Mylie,  with  an  indulgent  grin  ; 
"  but  of  course  it  wasn't  a  patch  on  '  Down  the  street 
there  is  a  bloomin'  riot/  by  that  funny  feller  at  Saturday's 
social.  Now,  that  was  lovely" 

I  used  to  imagine  I  had  a  decent  voice.  In  the  old 
days  I  believe  I  was  rather  proud  of  it.  But  vanity  in 
this  regard  was  cured  before  I  had  been  six  months  in 
the  East  End.  I  was  giving  my  choir  boys  a  lesson  in 
voice-production,  their  tendency  being  to  keep  their 
mouths  shut  and  their  heads  on  their  chests.  I  stood 
erect,  threw  out  my  chest,  opened  my  mouth  wide,  and 
said,  "  Look  at  me,  lads  ;  sing  like  this,"  at  the  same  time 
producing,  as  I  supposed,  a  musical  note.  I  had  scarcely 
finished,  when  Murrens,  an  intelligent  lad  of  twelve,  who 
was  watching  me  attentively,  began  to  speak,  but  seemed 
to  change  his  mind. 

"  Yes  ?  "  I  said,  encouragingly. 

"  We  have  plenty  of  that  kind  of  thing  from  father." 

"  Really  !  So  your  father  sings,  does  he  ?  I  am  very 
glad  to  hear  that." 

"  I  don't  know  about  singin'"  said  the  boy,  with  per- 
fect seriousness  ;  "  but  he  makes  that  sort  of  noise  when 
he  yawns." 

He  was  a  particularly  superior  kind  of  lad,  was 
Murrens ;  so  much  so,  in  fact,  that  women  were  always 
doing  their  best  to  spoil  him.  Yet  it  was  he  who 
confided  to  me  that  he  had  never  heard  of  "  God  bless  the 


RECREATIONS  153 

Prince  of  Wales,"  nor  of  "  Men  of  Harlech  "  ;  but  he  was 
anxious  to  inform  me  that  he  knew  "  God  save  the  Queen." 
Very  few  East  End  lads,  I  should  imagine,  are  acquainted 
with  the  good  old  British  songs  which  I  was  brought 
up  to  believe  to  be  the  precious  heritage  of  every  British 
child. 

Nevertheless,  one  can  truthfully  say  that  the  East- 
ender  is  not  only  fond  of  music,  but  is  himself,  irf  his 
own  way,  musical.  The  public-house  sing-song  of 
Saturday  night,  with  its  yelling  choruses  and  the  tap-tap 
of  the  chairman's  hammer,  are  familiar  and,  when  one 
has  got  used  to  them,  not  altogether  unpleasant  sounds. 
Women  and  children  are  often  sweet  singers  ;  and  with 
perseverance  it  is  possible  to  get  together  a  fairly 
effective  choir. 

Some  of  the  East  End  songs  are  practical,  some  are 
sentimental,  and  some  lay  claim  to  being  humorous. 
All  are  plain,  not  to  say  undraped.  Take  the  one  with 
the  exciting  title,  "  Those  wedding  bells  shall  not  ring 
out."  It  tells  how,  at  the  identical  moment  in  which 
the  lifelong  fate  of  two  human  beings  was  about  to  be 
sealed,  an  unwarrantable  interruption  occurred.  There 
was  a  shriek  of  woe,  a  flashing  blade  (these  things  are 
always  "  blades  "),  and  the  bride  and  bridegroom  (both 
of  them,  mind  you !)  immediately  became  stone  dead, 
and  ranged  themselves  side  by  side  at  the  foot  of 
the  altar. 

Again,  consider  the  story  of  the  "  Empty  Chair."  An 
unfortunate  gentleman  is  left  a  widower  ;  but,  instead  of 
shedding  useless  tears,  as  a  less  gentlemanly  gentleman 
would  have  done,  he  falls  back  (metaphorically)  upon  his 
infant  son,  and  announces  his  general  intentions  in  the 
following  irreproachable  verse  : — 


154  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

"  But  I've  a  young  life  to  defend  ; 
I  will  not  die  a  coward's  end  ; 
No,  no,  I'll  stick  to  baby  true  ; 
My  boy,  my  child,  I  still  love  you." 

There  is  the  history  of  the  young  man  who  lived 
"  underneath.''  What  a  world  of  undeserved  worry  that 
young  man  had  !  He  seems  to  have  been  rather  a  good 
young  man,  too.  But,  alas  !  good  young  men  always 
have  so  much  trouble.  The  vagaries  of  the  family  on 
the  floor  above  this  young  man  were  beyond  all 
endurance.  Their  quarrels,  their  language,  their  violence, 
wore  the  young  man  to  a  shadow  ;  and,  to  make  matters 
worse,  there  was  a  son  in  that  objectionable  family  who 
was — 

"  A  mark  on  the  upper  classes, 

And  says  he  will  give  them  beans  ; 

On  the  dynamite,  all  the  night, 

Makes  infernal  machines." 

The  miseries  of  the  young  man  "  underneath  "  reached 
an  artistic  but  intolerable  climax  on  washing-day,  when 
soap-suds  drifted  through  the  ceiling  and  descended 
gently  but  firmly  upon  the  young  man's  unprotected 
head. 

The  "  humorous"  song  is  a  firmly  established  institution 
in  the  East  End.  It  is  rarely  humorous,  however,  some- 
times vicious,  and  almost  always  vulgar.  Of  the  vicious 
song  I  cannot,  of  course,  give  examples ;  but  "  The 
Jilted  Shoeblack"  may  be  taken  as  a  type  of  the  humor- 
ous song.  This  gentleman  informs  us  that  he  had  been 
ten  years  "  trotting  out  a  donah,"  "  when  another  bloke 
with  money  comes  along "  and  upsets  his  matrimonial 
plans.  The  lady's  ingratitude  is  lamented  in  this 
wise : — 


RECREATIONS  155 

"  I  suppose  she  won't  remember  all  the  cash  I  said  I'd  spend, 

When  I  walked  her  off  to  'Ampstead  all  the  way  ; 
I  suppose  she  won't  remember  'ow  I  used  to  pawn  her  watch, 
And  promise  I  would  take  her  to  the  play. 

"  To-day  I  met  'er  suddin',  and  I  said,  '  'Ow  are  yer,  Liz  ? ' 

She  looked  at  me,  and  then  turned  up  her  nose, — 
Me  who'd  got  the  'ome  except  the  furniture  and  things  : 
She  won't  remember  that,  now,  I  suppose."  * 

Other  examples  are  "  I'm  getting  ready  for  my 
mother-in-law,"  and  "  We've  all  been  having  a  go  at  it." 
Here  is  a  stanza  of  the  latter,  followed  by  the  chorus  : — 

"  There's  some  lodgers  a-living  with  us, 
And  they've  made  such  a  terrible  fuss. 
They've  bought  a  chicken  for  dinner  to-day, 
Wanted  it  cooked — I  heard  them  say. 
Mother  she  soon  cleaned  up  the  hob, 
Charged  'em  a  bob  for  doing  the  job. 
When  the  chicken  was  cooked — oh,  lor  ! 
The  lodgers  came  down  and  I  had  to  roar — 

We've  all  been  having  a  go  at  it, 

All  been  having  a  go  at  it ! 
Somebody  pinched  its  wings  and  toes — 

I  had  a  bit  off  the  *  parson's  nose,' 
Oh,  good  gracious  ! 

Didn't  we  make  a  show, 
Seventeen  of  us — besides  myself — 
And  we've  all  been  having  a  go." 

The  purely  (not  impurely)  vulgar  song  is  so  prevalent 
as  to  make  any  selection  difficult.  "  Let  go,  Eliza  !  "  is 
fairly  typical ;  and  so  is 

"  Liza,  you  are  my  donah  ! 
You  are  my  little  peach  ! 
Meet  me  round  at  the  fish  shop, 
And  I  will  buy  you  a  penn'orth  of  each — Lor3  luv  yer  ! 


156  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

No  bloke  dare  come  and  kiss  you, 

Or  for  Mm  I  shall  go  ; 

If  I  should  lose  my  temper, 

Then  it's  '  What  ho  ! '  Liza  Johnson— yes,  '  What  ho  ! ' "  * 

A  pattern  of  song  much  to  be  commended  as  directly 
making  for  righteousness,  and  of  increasing  popularity, 
is  the  eminently  practical.  This  concerns  itself  with 
everything,  from  love  to  fiscal  reform,  but  exhibits  a 
strong  predilection  for  love.  Sometimes  it  tries  its  hand 
at  matchmaking : — 

"  There's  a  girl  wanted  there,  there's  a  girl  wanted  there, 
He  don't  care  if  she's  dark  or  fair, 
There's  a  nice  little  home  that  he's  willing  to  share — 
Hurry  up,  young  ladies,  and  don't  be  shy  !  there's  a  girl  wanted 
there."  * 

At  other  times  it  concerns  itself  with  the  exaltation 
of  love  for  love's  sake  : — 

"  Love  is  more  than  gold  to  me,  I  don't  want  your  L.S.D., 
I  just  want  the  girl  I  love,  believe  me  on  my  word, 
I  don't  want  your  wealth  and  land,  I  don't  want  your  mansion 

grand, 
It's  not  the  cage  I'm  after,  it's  the  bird." 

Anon,  taking  as  its  thesis  "  You  can  get  a  sweetheart 
any  day,  but  not  another  mother,"  it  informs  us  prettily 
that 

"  There's  an  old-fashioned  cottage  with  ivy  round  the  door, 
A  quaint  old  kitchen  with  sand  upon  the  floor  ; 
There's  a  dear  old  lady,  and,  wherever  I  may  roam, 
I  think  of  my  mother  and  my  dear  old  home."  * 

Then  it  proceeds  to  do  justice  to  "daddy,"  in  the 
role  of  little  son's  companion  : 


RECREATIONS  157 

"  I  love  daddy,  my  dear  daddy — 
And  I  know  that  he  loves  me  : 
He's  my  playmate — rain  or  shine, — 
There  ain't  another  daddy  in  the  world  like  mine." 

Or  as  ennobled  by  his  daily  toil  for  those  he  loves : 

"  '  My  daddy's  a  gentleman — he's  dressed  fine  ; 
My  daddy  don't  go  to  work  at  half-past  nine,' 
Then  the  other  maid  replied,  '  That's  quite  true, 
But  my  daddy,  you  see, 
Works  for  mother  and  me, 
So  my  daddy's  a  gentleman,  too.'"* 

But  of  all  the  East  End  songs,  the  sentimental  has 
the  firmest  grip  on  public  favour.  Here,  again,  one 
suffers  from  an  embarrassment  of  riches.  There's  the 
person  "  that  nobody  loves  at  all,"  although,  contradic- 
torily enough,  "  everybody's  loved  by  some  one."  There's 
the  small  boy  who,  when  caught  travelling  in  the  train 
without  a  ticket,  assures  the  soft-hearted  conductor  that 
he  is  on  his  way  to  see  his  (the  small  boy's)  dying 
mother.  And  there's  that  other  small  boy  who  addresses 
the  skylark  after  this  fashion  : — 

"  If,  among  the  angels,  mother  you  should  see, 
Ask  her  if  she  will  come  down  again  to  poor  dear  daddy  and 
me."  * 

Curiously  enough,  morality  is  often  at  a  serious 
discount  in  the  sentimental  song.  Doing  evil  that  good 
may  come  is  openly,  if  indirectly,  advocated.  In  "  It 
only  makes  me  love  her  all  the  more,"  the  over-fond 
one  sings — 

"  Once  she  pinched  a  watch  and  then  she  sold  it ; 

People  called  her  '  thief,'  but  still 
It  wasn't  for  herself,  but  for  a  pal  of  hers, 
Who  laid  at  home  so  ill." 


158  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

And  another  gentleman,  sick  of  the  same  fever,  consoles 
himself  for  his  partner's  frequent  infirmities  with  the 
reflection  that — 

"  She's  my  wife,  and  I  took  her  for  better  or  worse  ; 
She's  my  wife,  be  she  blessing  or  be  she  a  curse  ; 
Good  or  bad,  I  "will  stick  to  her  while  I  have  life  ; 
I  took  her  for  better  or  worse,  you  know,  and  she's  my  wife."  * 

Of  course,  the  main  theme  of  the  sentimental  song  is 
love,  love,  and  love  all  the  time : 

"  Because  I  love  you  !     Because  I  love  you  ! 

My  life  knows  no  regret,  e'en  tho'  we  have  not  met. 
True  time  shall  prove  you,  no  one  above  you, 
I  cannot  you  forget,  because  I  love  you." 

The  writers  of  these  ditties  ring  the  changes  liberally 
enough  ;  but  the  peal  is  always  the  same,  musical  as  far 
as  it  goes,  but  limited.  The  "  other  woman "  is  not 
forgotten : 

"  Are  we  to  part  like  this,  Bill,  are  we  to  part  this  way  ? 
Who's  it  to  be,  'er  or  me  ?     Don't  be  a-frightened  to  say  ! 
If  ev'ry thing's  over  between  us,  don't  never  pass  me  by, 
'Cos  you  and  me  still  friends  can  be,  for  the  sake  of  the  days 
gone  by." 

Nor  is  the  young  lady  named  Mignonette,  who  wasn't 
to  forget  he  loved  her  yet,  although  she  much  preferred 
the  other  fellow  ;  nor  the  "  bird  in  a  gilded  cage,"  who 
looked  happy  but  was  nothing  of  the  kind,  her  beauty 
having  been  "  sold  for  an  old  man's  gold  "  ;  nor  that  dear 
girl  "  Sweetheart  May,"  who,  like  so  many  dear  girls  of 
a  similar  type,  had  no  proper  sense  of  duty,  or  surely  she 
would  have  stuck  to  her  boy-lover  and  not  have  gone 
and  married  somebody  else.  The  sentimental  song 


RECREATIONS  159 

holds  such  imperial  sway  because  East  End  life  is  for  the 
most  part  lacking  in  all  that  makes  for  emotion  and 
tenderness.  The  sentimental  song  fills  the  empty  places 
in  the  hearts  of  a  people  whose  culture  is  limited,  but 
whose  loves  and  hates  are  as  deep  and  real  as  those  of 
the  rest  of  the  world. 

I  cannot  leave  this  subject  without  saying  a  word 
about  the  patriotic  song.  From  the  blood  of  the  slain 
on  the  battle-fields  of  South  Africa  sprang  a  sense  of 
brotherhood  new  to  the  East  End.  As,  day  by  day,  the 
newspaper  unfolded  the  development  of  affairs,  heaping 
horror  upon  horror  of  calamitous  defeat,  men  who  had 
hitherto  been  strangers  to  the  sense  of  patriotism 
were  stirred  to  their  souls'  depths  with  love  of  their 
country.  What  more  natural  than  that  they  should 
express  this  new-found  emotion  in  song?  In  quick 
succession  came  many  a  heart-stirring  appeal  for  unity, 
for  the  forgetting  of  old  hatreds  in  the  common  cause  of 
brotherly  love ;  and  "  What  do  you  think  of  the  Irish 
now  ?  "  "  Bravo  !  Dublin  Fusiliers  !  "  and  many  other 
challenges  of  a  similar  kind  were  the  outward  signs  of 
the  leavening  process  going  on  in  the  nation's  heart. 
And  when,  after  weeks  of  weary  waiting,  came  tidings 
of  the  relief  of  Mafeking,  the  deadly  indifference  of  East 
London  broke  forth  into  noble  enthusiasm.  "  On  the 
Wall "  the  intelligence  arrived  late ;  and  most  of  us 
were  abed  when  the  river  sirens  and  the  factory  bells, 
first  mildly  and  modestly  as  if  half  afraid  of  their  own 
voices,  then  boldly,  defiantly,  clamorously,  announced  the 
glorious  tidings.  Downstairs  three  steps  at  a  time  went 
I.  Into  the  church  I  ran,  and  there,  in  the  solemn  dark- 
ness of  it,  set  to  work  ringing  the  bell  as  I  had  never 
rung  it  before.  My  wife  was  rushing  from  door  to  door, 


160  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

crying,  "  Get  up !  Get  up  !  Mafeking  is  relieved.     Come 
to  church  !     Come  and  thank  God  !  " 

Never  was  such  a  congregation  as  we  had  that  night. 
Men  reeking  with  fumes  of  beer  and  tobacco,  women 
wrapped  in  shawls  because  they  had  had  no  time  to  dress 
themselves,  children  shivering  from  their  first  sleep,  with 
one  accord  they  answered  the  summons.  I  slipped  on 
my  surplice,  crept  humbly  to  the  altar,  and  poured  out 
my  soul  in  such  words  as  came.  And  when  I  sat  down 
to  the  organ  and  played  over  the  Old  Hundredth,  and 
that  heterogeneous  assembly  of  human  beings  "  praised 
God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow,"  it  was  as  if  a  great 
sorrow  had  been  lifted  from  the  hearts  of  a  united 
family.  Inspiring?  I  believe  you!  The  walls  of 
"  Little  St.  Cuthbert's  "  will  listen  for  a  long  time  before 
they  hear  such  music  again. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WORK    AND    WAGE 

THERE  are  some  curious  methods  of  getting  one's 
living  in  the  East  End.  Perhaps  the  strangest  of  all  is 
that  of  the  pawnbroker's  tout.  Touting  of  this  kind  is 
woman's  work.  Proud  man  will  not  soil  his  hands  with 
the  degrading  business.  Yet  I  never  heard  that  the 
brute  was  content  with  less  than  the  lion's  share  of  the 
profits.  Stella  Prince  was  a  tout. 

I  made  Stella's  acquaintance  some  seven  years  ago. 
She  stopped  me  in  the  street  one  day,  and  asked  me,  in 
a  pitiful,  despairing  way,  if  I  could  "  do  anything  "  with 
her  husband.  She  had  two  black  eyes,  and  her  cheeks 
were  of  a  ghastly  pallor.  I  "  did  something  "  with  her 
husband  ;  but  at  the  last  moment  she  would  not  prose- 
cute, and  so  the  case  fell  through.  After  that,  things 
went  from  bad  to  worse  with  Stella.  Her  husband 
drank  away  nearly  all  his  earnings ;  in  his  delirium  he 
beat  her  mercilessly.  While  he  was  sleeping  off  the 
stupor  of  the  night's  debauch,  his  children  and  hers 
would  be  crying  for  food.  The  woman  looked  hither 
and  thither  for  employment,  and  at  length  found  it  in 
that  which  only  the  lowest  of  her  class  would  descend 
to.  Henceforth,  every  Monday  morning  saw  her  collect- 

M 


1 62  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

ing  from  house  to  house  the  oddest  imaginable  assort- 
ment of  articles :  pots,  pans,  pictures,  ornaments,  bits 
of  finery,  clothes — mostly  clothes.  Henceforth,  every 
Saturday  night  saw  her  collecting  pence  from  door  to 
door,  slinking  down  to  the  pawnshop,  and  presently 
emerging  bent  double  under  her  heavy  burden. 

Poor  Stella !  What  a  woman  you  might  have  been 
under  happier  circumstances !  When  I  have  met  you 
with  those  hideous  bulging  bundles  under  your  ragged 
shawl,  how  my  heart  has  ached  for  you  !  You  never 
saw  me  at  those  times — you  could  not.  The  shame  of 
your  shameful  profession  was  heavy  on  you.  You 
realised  that,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  there  was  for  you 
but  one  step  of  infamy  below  that  which  you  had  taken. 
And  your  little  ones — the  thin,  pale-faced  boy  who 
helped  to  carry  the  "  things,"  and  who  always  greeted  me 
with  a  royal  smile  ;  and  the  wisp  of  girlhood  who  seemed 
to  share  the  horror  of  your  misery  and  your  passionate 
desire  to  hide  it — what  of  them  ?  God  help  you,  my 
sister  !  For  there  is  no  help  for  you  from  man. 

Another  shady  profession  is  the  crimp's.  Jack  Tar 
is  merry  but  not  wise,  and  the  crimp  is  the  parasite 
that  feeds  on  his  folly.  When  Jack  "  signs  on,"  it  is 
customary  for  him  to  receive  a  note  of  hand  cashable 
after  his  ship  has  sailed.  This  method  was  invented  to 
save  the  simple  creature  from  himself;  for,  in  earlier 
days,  it  was  the  custom  to  give  him  a  month's  wages  in 
advance,  and  the  fool  got  drunk  on  the  strength  of  it, 
and  missed  his  ship.  But  the  crimp,  who  frequently 
keeps  the  beer-shop,  is  equal  to  the  new  arrangement, 
and  for  a  consideration  will  cash  the  advance  notes  at 
sight.  So  Jack  still  arrives  on  board  penniless. 

In  the  East  End  there  are  numberless  working-men 


WORK  AND  WAGE  163 

who  are  "  Jack  Tars  "  in  nature  if  not  in  name.  Need- 
less to  say,  there  is  no  lack  of  swindlers  to  fleece  them. 
Blunt,  whose  character  as  an  affectionate  husband  I 
once  vindicated  in  the  teeth  of  twelve  suspicious  jury- 
men, crimps  his  fellow-workmen.  His  method  is 
simplicity  itself.  Let  the  reader  remember  that  the 
working-man  of  Saturday  is  a  different  creature  from 
the  working-man  of  Monday.  On  Saturday  he  is 
generous,  open-handed,  happy  as  a  king  ;  on  Monday  he 
is  morose,  close-fisted,  gloomy  as  a  comedian  on  a  holi- 
day. From  Monday  to  Saturday  he  is  in  the  depths. 
The  public-house  doors  stand  wide,  but  they  serve  only 
to  tantalise  his  appetite :  his  pockets  are  absolutely 
empty.  To  him,  in  his  deplorable  plight,  comes  Blunt, 
like  an  angel  of  light,  with  a  plan  of  immediate  relief. 
"  Take  this  little  brass  disk,"  says  he  to  the  thirsty  one, 
after  the  manner  of  a  conjurer,  "  present  it  at  yonder  bar, 
and  the  results  will  surprise  you." 

"  How  much  ?  "  asks  the  thirsty  one. 

"  Sixpence,  please,  on  Saturday,"  says  Blunt. 

"  My  Gawd  ! "  exclaims  the  thirsty  one,  smacking  his 
lips,  grabbing  the  disk,  and  darting  into  the  beer-shop. 

"  My — conscience  ! "  says  Blunt,  at  the  thought  of  his 
6,000  per  cent,  profit. 

Enough  of  the  shady  side  of  work.  Let  us  turn  to 
the  consideration  of  the  bond  fide  toiler.  The  East  End 
is  the  [workshop  of  London.  There,  everything  that 
can  be  made  is  made,  not  excepting  fortunes,  which,  for 
the  most  Tpart,  the  fortune-makers  keep  to  themselves. 
Consider,  for  example,  this  hive  of  industry,  the  Isle  of 
Dogs.  What  a  wealth  of  production  it  can  boast ! 
Ships,  from  the  lordly  man-o'-war  to  the  humble-minded 
barge  ;  all  that  appertains  to  ships — masts  and  oars, 

M  2 


164  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

sails  and  ropes,  tanks  and  cisterns,  blocks  and  steering- 
gear,  casks  and  tarpaulin.  Here  pickles  are  made,  and 
paint,  boilers  and  sacks,  chemicals  and  wire-netting,  dis- 
infecting fluids  and  lead,  encaustic  tiles,  railway  sleepers, 
barrels  and  bottles  ;  here  are  varnish  works  and  lubricat- 
ing oil  works,  foundries  for  brass  and  iron,  copper  works, 
smelting  and  gold-ore  works,  timber  yards  and  fibre 
works.  And  the  Isle  of  Dogs  is  typical  of  the  whole  of 
the  East  End.  In  this  unknown  land,  men,  women 
and  children  labour  strenuously  for  the  meat  that 
perishes  in  order  that  they  themselves  may  live.  Theirs 
is  the  incessant  toil,  the  labour  that  does  not  physic  pain, 
the  meagre  meal  eaten  in  discomfort,  the  unhomelike 
home.  Oh,  their  wonderful  patience  !  What  a  sight  it 
is  to  see  them  streaming  from  work  at  close  of  day. 
They  are  so  tired,  so  hot  and  grimy,  yet  so  light-hearted 
withal,  that  it  makes  one  glad,  even  as  it  makes  one  sad, 
merely  to  look  at  them. 

To  get  work,  to  do  it,  to  keep  it :  these  are  the  three 
requisites  of  the  toiler's  life  ;  and  of  the  three  the  get- 
ting is  the  most  important.  So  far  from  shirking  work, 
the  goal  of  the  respectable  working-man,  passion- 
ately striven  for,  is  to  secure  it.  He  is  painfully  aware 
of  the  wolf  of  hunger  at  the  door,  cruel  and  blood- 
thirsty, waiting  for  the  slightest  chance  to  force  an 
entrance.  Be  his  work,  therefore,  never  so  unhealthy, 
never  so  exacting,  the  radiant  smile  will  light  up  his  face 
with  very  gratitude.  Only  when  it  fails  does  the  light  fail. 

The  respectable  working-man  out  of  work  quickly 
degenerates.  His  gait  grows  slovenly,  his  speech  halting. 
The  better  man  he  is,  the  harder  is  his  failure  to  bear. 
He  falls  farther  than  the  sluggard  because  he  has 
farther  to  fall ;  he  rises  more  slowly  because  he  has 


WORK  AND  WAGE  165 

fewer  to  help  him  up.  For,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  is 
often  easier  for  a  careless  man  to  get  work  than  for  a 
steady  man.  The  good-for-nought  frequents  the  public- 
houses  and  the  clubs ;  he  has  a  crowd  of  pot-compan- 
ions. But  the  steady  man  is  a  stay-at-home,  known 
neither  to  club  nor  pub.  His  foreman  is  not  always 
partial  to  him  ;  he  is  not  popular  with  his  fellows.  I 
have  known  a  man  of  excellent  character  and  ability 
remain  out  of  employment  for  months  together,  while 
the  ne'er-do-well  would  drift,  haphazard,  from  place  to 
place,  never  lacking  a  bed  or  a  meal  or  a  glass  of  beer — 
especially  a  glass  of  beer.  The  respectable  man  may 
have  served  a  firm  faithfully  for  twenty  years  ;  but  a  tiff 
with  his  superior,  an  accident,  a  serious  illness,  or  even  a 
slight  one,  will  settle  his  business. 

Fear  of  the  future  kills  the  working-man.  Rivers 
was  one  of  those  whom  it  is  an  honour  to  have  known. 
Industrious,  upright,  highly  intelligent,  he  was  employed 
in  one  firm  for  the  whole  of  his  life.  Yet  the  fear  of 
the  future  killed  him.  "  My  wife  and  children,"  were 
the  words  most  frequently  on  his  lips  during  his  days  of 
health.  "  My  wife  and  children,"  were  the  words  that 
spoke  in  his  eyes  as  he  lay  dying  in  the  London 
Hospital.  It  is  the  uncertainty  that  kills. 

Take  the  case  of  Cartwright.  I  felt  that  young  fellow's 
death  as  if  it  had  been  that  of  my  own  brother.  He  was 
terribly  ill,  yet  he  would  stick  to  his  work.  "  Rest,  my 
dear  boy,"  said  I.  "  Let  me  send  you  into  the  country 
for  three  months.  You  will  come  back  a  new  man." 

"  How  can  I  ?  "  was  his  answer.  "  If  I  give  up,  I'm 
done  for.  There  are  a  dozen  men  ready  to  step  into  my 
shoes.  What  will  become  of  the  missus  and  the  kids  ? 
I  must  hold  on." 


1 66  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

He  held  on.  It  was  pitiful.  He  had  a  pretty  wife 
and  three  bonny  children.  I  begged  a  few  guineas  from 
friends,  and  sent  him  off  to  a  celebrated  physician.  He 
returned  radiant :  the  doctor  had  promised  him  life, 
I  remember  how  he  repeated  the  word  again  and 
again,  laughing  aloud  with  joy,  "  Life  !  life  !  "  "  Merely 
a  matter  of  time,"  he  said.  I  had  other  thoughts. 

The  days  passed.  He  grew  weaker,  weaker ;  but  he 
would  not  give  in.  The  night  before  he  died  he  made 
ready  for  another  visit  to  the  doctor.  He  was  too  feeble 
to  walk  twenty  yards ;  so  it  was  arranged  that  he 
should  have  a  cab.  A  cab  in  Millwall !  Carefully  and 
methodically  he  prepared  for  the  morrow :  what  he  was 
to  wear,  when  he  was  to  start,  what  he  was  to  say.  He 
could  not  speak  above  a  whisper  ;  his  breath  came 
sharp  and  quick  ;  his  face  was  livid ;  but  he  was  as 
cheerful  as  a  cricket. 

"  It'll  be  all  right,"  he  said,  with  a  bright  smile. 
"  Merely  a  matter  of  time,  you  know.  I  must  hold  on." 

Next  morning  I  was  called  to  his  bedside.  It  was 
eleven  o'clock  ;  he  was  to  have  started  at  ten.  "  Hullo, 
old  chap,  what's  this  ?  " 

"  Just  a  bit  done  up,"  he  gasped.     "  Better  presently." 

He  didn't  care  for  me  to  pray  with  him.  He  had 
never  been  one  of  that  sort,  he  said  ;  no  good  in 
pretending. 

A  little  later  I  saw  him  again.  He  was  so  bright  that 
I  was  perplexed.  "  Do  you  know  you  are  dying  ?  "  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  steadily  for  a  minute.  Then,  speak- 
ing clearly  amid  the  thick  come-and-go  of  his  breath,  he 
answered  :  "  Not  me  !  He'll  pull  me  through  all  right. 
Didn't  he  promise  ?  I  must  hold  on  for  the  sake  of  the 
missus — and  the  kids." 


WORK  AND  WAGE  167 

A  while  after  he  muttered,  "  Can't  understand  it  at 
all.  What  have  I  got  to  go  for?  Always  straight. 
Done  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  Carit  understand  it." 

"  Nor  I.    But  we'll  say  '  Our  Father,'  eh  ?  " 

He  signified  assent.  His  people  crowded  silently 
into  the  room.  We  stumbled  through  the  Lord's 
Prayer  together. 

"  Can't  understand  it,  all  the  same,"  he  repeated,  when 
we  had  finished.  "  Fair  puzzle  to  me.  But  I  must  hold 
on." 

He  held  on  for  two  hours  longer.  Then  he  passed 
over.  A  brave,  strong,  noble  soul ! 

The  respectable  working-man  goes  in  perpetual  dread 
of  the  future.  Sickness  means  starvation  or  the  work- 
house ;  and  in  his  estimation  there  is  not  much  to  choose 
between  them. 

So  there  are  few  holidays  for  him,  and  few  minutes  in 
the  long  day  wherein  he  may  seek  relaxation  from  the 
daily  grind.  He  rises  from  bed,  and  he  goes  to  work  ; 
he  comes  from  work,  and  he  goes  to  bed.  There  are  not 
many  spaces  in  his  life.  It  is  hard  and  dreary  ;  it  would 
be  altogether  impossible  but  for  that  sleepless  wolf  howl- 
ing incessantly  at  the  door.  He  works  overtime  when- 
ever possible,  the  restrictions  of  the  law  being  quietly 
ignored  by  his  employer.  Sunday  is  an  unwelcome 
holiday,  and  so  are  the  two  or  three  days  in  the  year 
consecrated  to  booze  by  his  fellow-labourers  ;  besides 
which,  there  is  always  the  possibility  of  a  ruined  day 
when  one  is  dependent  upon  a  lazy  or  drunken  mate. 
The  respectable  working-man  would  willingly  forego 
rest  of  every  kind  could  he  rake  together  a  few  extra 
shillings  for  his  wife  and  little  ones.  Robinson  occurs 
to  me  as  an  example.  During  the  five  years  he  was  at 


1 68  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

Liddell's  he  had  only  three  days  "  off,"  and  he  was  not 
particularly  keen  even  about  them. 

The  working-man  is  further  hampered  by  the  system 
of  blackmail  to  which  men  occupying  posts  of  trust  and 
responsibility  unblushingly  condescend.  The  foreman 
holds  the  lives  of  the  workers  in  his  hands,  and  sells  to 
the  highest  bidder.  Even  when  a  man  has  secured  a 
job,  he  must  bribe  his  foreman  if  he  would  keep  it.  "  I 
never  lowered  myself  to  that,"  said  Binder,  "  but  many 
of  my  mates  have  done  so.  They  are  there  " — he  ex- 
tended his  knotted  hands  with  a  pathetically  eloquent 
gesture  :  "  I  am  here." 

Many  highly  respectable  firms  pay  their  men  labourers' 
wages,  say  sevenpence  an  hour,  while  they  charge  their 
clients  mechanics'  wages,  say  eightpence-halfpenny  an 
hour.  Complaint  would  spell  dismissal.  The  wise  worker 
keeps  his  thoughts  to  himself.  I  know  of  a  man  whose 
average  earnings  were  eighteen  shillings  a  week.  Having 
a  wife  and  children  dependent  on  him,  he  was  naturally 
on  the  look-out  for  any  means  of  increasing  this  meagre 
pittance.  Hearing  of  a  watchman's  job  for  a  single 
night,  he  jumped  at  it,  although  the  weather  was  bitterly 
cold.  For  this  service  half-a-crown  was  actually  paid, 
but  only  one-and-sixpence  found  its  way  into  this  poor 
fellow's  pocket.  "  I  am  a  living  witness  that  black- 
mailing of  the  kind  does  exist ;  God  help  you  to  expose 
it ! "  a  working-man  wrote  to  me,  and  enclosed  his 
dinner  money  for  a  sick  brother  who  had  been  victimised 
by  this  atrocious  system. 

One  dark  December  day  I  was  called  in  to  see  Lemon. 
He  was  ill  and  starving.  The  charitable  society  to 
which  he  had  applied  for  relief  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  him  because,  having  examined  the  books  of  the 


WORK  AND  WAGE  169 

firm  where  he  had  been  employed,  they  had  made 
the  interesting  discovery  that  his  earnings  were 
larger  than  he  had  represented  them  to  be.  So  Lemon 
was  written  down  a  liar,  and  his  application  was  rejected. 
Having  my  doubts  as  to  the  justice  of  this  decision,  I 
invited  a  working-man  friend  to  a  smoke  and  a  chat. 
At  an  opportune  moment  I  broached  the  matter  of 
Lemon.  My  friend  smiled  and  said,  "  Oh,  that's  a 
regular  thing.  Of  course,  the  governors  don't  know 
anything  about  it,  or,  if  they  do,  think  it  best  to  keep 
their  eyes  shut.  It's  like  this :  '  plush  profits,'  as  they 
are  called,  are  regarded  by  the  foreman  as  his  '  perks ' 
(perquisites),  and  to  all  intents  and  purposes  are  a  tax 
on  the  men  under  him.  Say  a  man  earns  twenty-five 
shillings  a  week.  Well,  the  foreman  will  pay  him 
twenty-four  shillings  and  pocket  the  shilling ;  but  he 
will  enter  the  whole  twenty-five  shillings  on  the  firm's 
books  to  the  man's  credit." 

•  The  working-man's  lot  is  hard  indeed  ;  but,  if  possible, 
that  of  the  working-woman  is  still  harder.  Two  typical 
cases  will  suffice  to  illustrate  my  point.  Mrs.  Laverstick, 
a  widow  of  sixty,  worked  at  Scamper's.  Her  hours 
were  fifty-six  per  week  ;  namely,  ten  on  five  days  and  six 
on  one  day  (Saturday).  Her  earnings  were  exactly 
nine  shillings,  or  not  quite  twopence  an  hour.  The 
dinner-time  was  not  paid  for,  and  there  was  no  interval 
for  tea.  The  floor  of  the  room  in  which  Mrs.  Laverstick 
worked  streamed  with  water,  the  air  reeked  with  steam, 
and  the  fumes  of  acid  caused  her  poor  old  eyes  to  shed 
abundant  tears.  Normally,  hair,  clothes,  and  feet  were 
wringing  wet.  She  could  not  stand  this  sort  of  thing 
for  ever,  poor  soul !  So  she  left  Scamper's  and  took  to 
making  grommets,  hempen  rings  used  in  bolting.  When 


170  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

in  good  form,  she  could  make  a  grommet  a  minute  ;  and 
I  have  known  her  to  make  three  hundred  of  these 
little  rings  before  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  but 
she  had  to  get  up  at  half-past  three,  and  work  for  several 
hours  by  candle-light,  to  do  it.  Fourpence  a  hundred, 
or  about  twopence  an  hour,  was  her  wage,  twine  being 
provided. 

The  other  typical  case  is  that  of  Mrs.  Coventry.  One 
day,  shortly  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  I  met  her 
looking  miserably  ill  and  unhappy.  Contrary  to  her 
usual  custom,  she  would  have  passed  me,  but  I  stopped 
her  with  a  look  and  a  word.  There  were  great  black 
rings  round  her  eyes  ;  her  figure  was  bent  as  if  with  age. 
She  seemed  dwarfed,  deformed.  What  was  the  matter  ? 
I  asked.  Thereupon,  in  a  dull,  monotonous  voice,  she 
began  the  old  story  of  pinching  poverty,  expatiating  on 
the  number  of  weeks'  rent  she  owed,  the  clothes  and 
bedding  "put  away"  (euphemism  for  ".pawned "), and  so 
on  ;  and  she  was  dropping  into  rosy  reminiscences  of 
the  past  gladdened  by  a  husband  who  regularly  earned 
twenty-two  shillings  a  week,  when  I  caught  sight  of  her 
fingers  and  uttered  an  involuntary  exclamation.  At 
that  she  paused,  and  stretched  out  her  hands  for  me  to 
see ;  and  the  tears  so  long  held  back  brimmed  over  in  a 
scalding  flood  of  self-pity.  It  was  a  shocking  sight  that 
I  looked  upon.  There  was  nothing  human  about  her 
hands.  The  fingers  were  odiously  discoloured  ;  the  nails 
were  torn  and  worn  to  the  quick ;  the  joints  were 
knotted  and  gnarled  like  those  of  some  hideous  abortion. 
I  shuddered.  "  How  much  ?  "  I  asked,  in  the  staccato 
of  repressed  emotion. 

"You  see,  I'm  not  up  to  the  work,"  answered  Mrs. 
Coventry.  "  Yest'y,  it  took  me  from  eight  to  half-past 


WORK  AND  WAGE  171 

eleven  to  do  as  'ard  a  bit  o'  work  as  I  ever  done  in  my 
life,  and  I  got  twopence-halfpenny  for  it  ;  and  after  dinner 
I  worked  up  to  seven  o'clock  an*  earnt  fivepence.  Total 
earnings  for  the  day,"  said  Mrs.  Coventry,  with  quivering 
lips  and  a  succession  of  little  sobs  that  shook  her — "  total 
earnings  for  the  day,  sevenpence-halfpenny,  s'elp  me, 
God  ! " 

So  help  her,  God !  She  and  her  kind  stand  in  dire 
need  of  it. 

And  the  child-worker?  What  is  bad  for  grown-up 
persons  is  still  worse  for  growing  boys  and  girls.  Theirs 
is  the  mental  pain  arising  from  the  sharpness  of  the 
contrast  between  limited  ability  and  unlimited  demands. 
One  can  guess  but  faintly  what  it  must  be  for  the  work- 
ing boy  or  girl  to  have  to  battle  day  by  day  with  in- 
herent weakness — physical,  moral,  mental — and  yet  keep 
the  head  above  water  in  a  kind  of  death-struggle. 
Theirs,  too,  is  that  terror  of  losing  the  means  of  liveli- 
hood which  makes  existence  almost  unbearable.  When 
Cory  was  but  sixteen  years  old,  he  worked,  months  on 
end,  for  seven  days  a  week,  despite  the  rigid  law  respect- 
ing holidays.  On  Sunday  evenings  he  would  turn  up  in 
choir,  looking  so  fagged  that  I  was  often  tempted  to 
send  him  home  again,  and  would  have  done  so  but  for 
the  pleading  in  his  eyes. 

"  Why  should  you  work  on  Sunday  when  you  don't 
want  to  ?  "  I  would  say  to  him.  His  invariable  reply 
was  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  But  why  ?  "  I  would 
insist.  His  dark  eyes  would  overflow  as  he  answered  : 
"  I'd  like  to  see  myself  arguing  with  Sampson.  It'd  be, 
'  Aiit  you  go,  then  ! '  " 

Cringle,  another  of  my  lads,  met  with  a  serious 
accident  at  his  work.  Shortly  afterwards,  I  fell  in  with 


172  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

him  hobbling  along  with  great  difficulty.  His  face  was 
white  and  drawn. 

"  Surely  you've  not  been  to  work  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Had  to,  unless  I  wanted  the  sack,"  was  the  laconic 
answer. 

But  perhaps  the  hardest  lot  of  all  is  that  of  the 
factory-girl  ;  and  that  because  she  has  less  force  to 
rough  it  than  the  man  or  the  boy,  and  less  wisdom  than 
the  woman,  while  her  wage  is  contemptible.  When  the 
East  End  lassie  leaves  school,  she  generally  goes  into 
a  "little  place."  In  the  "little  place"  she  has  to  be 
nursemaid,  housemaid,  cook,  and  occasionally  shop- 
assistant.  She  begins  early,  and  she  finishes  late. 
However  good  her  intentions  may  be,  fate  is  too  exact- 
ing for  her.  In  six  months  she  has  degenerated  into  an 
ill-conditioned,  discontented,  lazy  slut.  She  throws  up 
the  "  little  place,"  and  goes  into  a  "  sweating "  factory. 
In  that  delectable  mansion  she  mixes  with  the  lowest 
kind  of  girl  going,  and  learns  to  love  foul  and  foolish 
things.  The  "  little  place  "  offers  no  sort  of  training  for 
girls  ambitious  to  serve  in  good  houses  ;  and  no  self- 
respecting  mistress  would  take  a  girl  as  domestic 
servant  from  the  pigsty  of  the  factory. 

As  a  general  rule,  the  factory-girl  lives  far  from  her 
work,  and  is  therefore  obliged  to  walk  several  miles 
every  day.  The  north-east  wind  may  blow  its  bitterest ; 
rain  or  snow  may  fall  its  swiftest ;  the  mud  may  lie 
ankle-deep  in  the  roadway,  the  pavements  stream  with 
rivulets.  It  matters  not.  Long  before  the  grey  of 
dawn  steals  over  the  sleeping  city,  the  factory-girl  must 
rise  from  her  wretched  bed,  fling  on  her  threadbare 
clothes,  and  set  off  on  her  long  tramp.  She  clip-clops 
along  the  deserted  streets,  keenly  conscious  that  the 


WORK  AND  WAGE  173 

gates  will  close  sharp  on  the  hour,  and  that  to  be 
twenty  seconds  late  will  ruin  her  whole  day.  Sleepily 
she  stumbles  along,  dreaming  of  the  coming  Saturday 
night  and  the  long  rest  of  Sunday  ;  and  as  she  dreams 
and  stumbles,  she  arrives  at  the  factory.  She  is  swept 
through  the  gates  in  a  vortex  of  evil-smelling  petticoats 
and  shawls,  as  the  clamour  of  many-tongued  bells  dies 
away  and  the  work  of  the  day  begins. 

For  five  hours  at  a  stretch  she  must  labour.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  working-room  may  be  so  pungent 
that  the  eyes  may  run  with  water.  With  every  breath 
she  draws  she  may  be  inhaling,  through  those  parted 
lips  of  hers,  myriads  of  tiny  particles  of  fibrous  stuff 
that  set  her  coughing  and  coughing,  until  one  of  these 
days  she  will  cough  her  lungs  away.  She  may  not  sit 
down :  the  keen  eyes  of  her  forewoman  are  upon  her. 
Like  a  slave  of  old  time,  she  must  go  on  with  her  work, 
be  it  never  so  exhausting,  mechanical,  degrading.  At 
one  o'clock  she  will  be  released  for  dinner.  At  two  she 
will  be  back  again  ;  and  from  that  time  until  seven  she 
will  go  on  without  a  break. 

Let  the  reader  note  in  passing,  that  the  only  interval 
allowed  for  food  must  be  paid  for  by  the  factory-girl  and 
not  by  her  employer.  The  great  firm  cannot  spare  even 
an  hour,  so  that  the  serf  who  is  making  them  rich  shall  be 
permitted  to  give  her  starving  stomach  something  to  go 
on:  "If  you  won't  work  eleven  hours  at  a  stretch,  but 
will  insist  on  a  whole  hour  for  rest  and  food,  then  pay 
for  your  food  and  pay  for  your  rest — you'll  get  no  pennies 
out  of  us."  And  what  will  her  dinner  be  like  ?  Well,  it 
may  consist  of  the  bread  and  margarine  she  has  brought 
from  home,  or  of  a  penn'orth  of  fried  fish  and  a  ha'p'orth 
of  bread  bought  at  the  fish-shop  near  by.  In  any  case, 


174  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

in  view  of  the  fact  that  very  few  girls  can  spend  as 
much  as  threepence  on  their  mid-day  meal,  it  is  safe 
to  conjecture  that  it  will  be  insufficient  in  quantity  and 
inferior  in  quality,  although  extremely  appetising. 

In  a  certain  part  of  the  East  End,  not  a  hundred 
miles  from  Millwall,  there  was,  when  I  first  knew  it,  no 
place  in  which  the  many  hundreds  of  factory- girls 
employed  by  a  neighbouring  firm  could  eat  their  dinner 
in  decency,  to  say  nothing  of  comfort.  To  exaggerate 
the  danger  run  by  these  workers  in  passing  from  steam- 
ing kitchens  and  suffocating  rooms  into  wind  or  rain, 
sleet  or  snow,  would  be  impossible.  Scantily  clad  and 
half-fed,  they  fell  an  easy  prey  to  disease.  It  was  the 
duty  of  their  employers  to  provide  them  with  shelter ; 
but  for  years  their  employers  had  shirked  that  duty, 
leaving  to  private  philanthropy,  earnest  but  insufficient, 
the  task  that  rightly  belonged  to  themselves.  The  coup 
de  grace  to  this  unsatisfactory  state  of  affairs  was  at 
length  given  by  two  practical  philanthropists  and  myself. 
We  sent  to  the  firm  in  question  a  joint  letter,  which  was 
in  the  nature  of  an  ultimatum  :  "  If  you  don't  provide  a 
dining-room  for  your  girls,  we  shall  do  so-and-so."  The 
effect  was  magical.  Within  twenty-four  hours  a  large 
room  was  in  process  of  transformation  ;  and  a  few  days 
later  some  hundreds  of  girls  sat  down  to  dinner  for  the 
first  time  under  cover.  It  was  but  a  partial  victory,  for 
the  comparatively  small  space  at  disposal  limited  the 
number  of  diners  ;  but  it  was  a  victory  all  the  same,  and 
an  earnest,  let  us  hope,  of  greater  triumphs  to  come. 

Let  me  give  a  few  illustrations  of  the  working  life 
of  girls  I  know  well.  Alice  Torby,  commonly  called 
"  Topsy,"  works  in  the  same  factory  as  that  in  which  Mrs. 
Laverstick  worked  until  she  broke  down.  Her  average 


WORK  AND  WAGE  175 

wage  is  eight  shillings  a  week,  or  not  quite  seven 
farthings  an  hour  ;  but,  as  she  puts  in  a  good  deal  of 
overtime,  frequently  working  on  Saturdays  until  ten  at 
night,  she  will,  for  such  weeks,  take  as  much  as  ten 
shillings  and  sixpence.  There  is  only  one  break  in 
the  day  for  Topsy,  namely,  from  one  till  two,  except 
during  overtime,  when  half  an  hour  is  allowed  for  tea. 
Topsy  stands  at  her  work  all  day  long,  and,  if  caught 
attempting  to  sit,  is  liable  to  a  "  jawing." 

Pauline,  aged  seventeen,  works  at  one  of  the  very  best 
factories  in  the  East  End.  Not  long  ago,  sorely  against 
her  will,  because  she  was  afraid  that  her  earnings  would 
fall  below  their  normal  standard  of  eight  shillings  a 
week,  she  was  obliged  to  adopt  a  new  system  of  piece- 
work, and  was  paid  a  penny  and  an  eighth  for  her  part 
in  the  packing  of  every  hundred  packets  of  tea.  From 
eight  in  the  morning  until  eight  at  night,  for  three 
terrible  days,  she  worked  like  a  veritable  nigger,  straining 
every  nerve  to  keep  up  to  her  standard  of  earnings.  On 
the  Thursday  she  collapsed.  For  her  forty-two  and  a 
half  hours'  work  she  earned  exactly  four  and  twopence, 
and  she  dealt  with  no  fewer  than  3,400  packets. 

This  is  the  kind  of  work  that  kills.  For  soldering  a 
hundred  tins,  a  child  of  fourteen  can  earn  twopence- 
halfpenny.  Think  of  it.  Twopence-halfpenny  for 
two  hours  of  such  work  !  And  the  delicate  ringers 
bleeding,  and  the  delicate  wrists  burnt !  How  many 
hundreds  of  tins,  my  lady,  must  be  soldered  before  the 
price  of  your  new  gown  could  be  paid  for  ?  How  many 
thousands  of  tins,  my  lord,  before  you  could  defray  the 
cost  of  one  night's  merry-making  ?  A  girl  can  solder  five 
hundred  tins  a  day,  for  which  she  will  receive  one  shilling 
and  a  halfpenny.  At  the  end  of  the  week,  Saturday  being 


i76 


SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 


a  short  day,  she  will  take  six  shillings  for  her  six  days' 
work.  How  far  will  six  shillings  go  ?  Obviously,  if  one  is 
to  live  by  soldering  tins,  many  more  than  five  hundred  a 
day  must  be  soldered.  I  know  a  woman  who,  on  her 
first  day,  soldered  a  thousand  tins ;  on  the  second,  she 
could  manage  no  more  than  eight  hundred  and  fifty  ; 
the  third  day  showed  a  further  drop  to  seven  hundred  ; 
and  when  Saturday  came,  exhausted  in  body,  despair- 
ing in  soul,  the  poor  creature  had  but  eight  shillings  and 
ninepence  to  take  home  to  her  fatherless  bairns. 

To  the  frantic  eagerness  of  the  underpaid  worker  to 
make  sufficient  to  live  on,  somehow,  anyhow,  is  doubt- 
less due  a  large  proportion  of  the  terrible  accidents 
for  which  our  factories  are  notorious.  Certainly  the 
glamour  of  "  high  wages  "  tempts  into  that  death-trap, 
the  white- lead  factory,  many  who,  in  normal  circum- 
stances, would  as  lief  work  in  a  sewer.  Some  such  firms 
bait  their  hooks  with  a  free  and  appetising  breakfast, 
but  the  price  the  poor  worker  has  to  pay  for  such 
"  liberality  "  is  health  and  even  life  itself.  Eyes  grow 
lustreless,  hands  useless,  one  after  another  the  faculties 
of  body  and  mind  decay,  and  the  end  of  the  miserable 
victim  is  the  grave. 

Lead  kills  surely,  although  slowly.  It  is  to  the 
advantage  of  the  employer  not  to  advertise  the  fact  ; 
there  is  a  quite  natural  tendency  to  hush  up  such  cases 
as  occasionally  become  public.  But  those  who  live 
among  the  workers  know  how  difficult  it  would  be  to 
exaggerate  the  evils  of  lead-poisoning.  I  once  spent  a 
couple  of  hours  in  the  midst  of  thousands  of  tons  of  lead. 
"  Mind  you  don't  touch  it !  "  said  my  guide,  warningly  ; 
"  it's  beastly  stuff.  It  creeps  under  the  nails  ;  it  distils 
into  the  system.  Before  you  know  where  you  are, — 


WORK  AND  WAGE  177 

well,  you've  seen  things  yourself,  haven't  you  ?  "  Seldom 
is  it  that  one  gets  such  an  honest  expression  of  opinion. 
Manufacturer  and  worker  are  in  league  to  conceal  the 
facts  ;  the  manufacturer  for  obvious  reasons,  the  worker 
because  he  is  afraid  of  losing  his  place.  Lead-poisoning 
is  nevertheless  a  fact,  although  difficult  of  proof.  The 
process  of  degeneration  is  so  slow  as  to  be  almost  im- 
perceptible. But  the  gradual  assimilation  of  small 
quantities  of  lead,  as  is  well  known,  is  more  fatal  than  the 
rapid  absorption  of  larger  quantities.  Woe  to  the  poor 
wretch  in  whom  the  deadly  work  has  begun  ! 

I  imagine  my  readers  to  be  wondering  whether  I  am 
adhering  to  the  strict  truth  in  the  foregoing  statements. 
It  seems  incredible  to  them  that  the  toilers  of  the  East 
End  should  be  so  hounded  and  harried,  that  they  should 
be  so  overworked  and  so  underpaid,  that  they  should  be 
left  so  wholly  in  the  hands  of  tyrannical  jacks-in-office, 
who  would  not  know  how  to  treat  a  rat,  much  less  a 
human  being.  They  are  recalling  vague  impressions  of 
Acts  of  Parliament  passed  for  the  protection  of  the 
worker.  "  How  can  these  things  be  while  there  is  a  law 
in  the  land  ?  "  they  are  asking  themselves. 

Well,  they  can  be,  and  are,  simply  because  human 
nature  is  human  nature,  and  the  battle  is  to  the  strong. 
It  is  wonderful  how  many  laws  a  rich  man  may  break 
with  impunity,  and  how  few  a  poor  man.  The  explana- 
tion of  the  existing  practice  as  to  overtime,  for 
instance  (to  take  one  of  the  many  abuses  which  embitter 
the  toiler's  life),  is  due  to  what  may  be  regarded  in  the 
light  of  an  accident.  There  are  occasions,  the  reader  must 
know,  when  even  a  few  hours'  delay  may  mean  ruin 
to  certain  manufactures.  At  such  times,  half  as  much 
labour  again  may  be  required  as  on  normal  occasions. 

N 


178  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

To  meet  such  exceptional  circumstances,  the  Factories 
and  Workshops  Act  was  modified  with  respect  to 
factories  dealing  in  perishable  goods,  such  as  fruit,  fish, 
and  condensed  milk,  and  allowed  an  employer,  in  cases 
of "  emergency,"  to  keep  his  employes  at  work  beyond 
the  stipulated  hours.  But,  in  view  of  the  essential 
selfishness  of  human  nature,  the  result,  to  all  who 
possess  more  than  an  academic  acquaintance  with  the 
conditions  of  labour,  was  a  foregone  conclusion.  For 
the  word  "  emergency  "  is  found  to  possess  wonderfully 
elastic  properties,  and,  while  the  employer  of  labour  is 
relieved  of  the  trouble  and  expense  of  seeking  extra 
workers,  the  labourer  himself  is  forced  to  work  against 
his  will  and  strength.  So,  from  June  to  September,  the 
sweater  is  helped  by  the  civil  law  to  break  the  moral 
law,  and  may  systematically  overwork  his  workers  and 
yet  be  held  blameless.  The  Act  might  have  been 
framed  for  his  protection,  and  not  for  that  of  the  worker. 
Under  the  aegis  of  this  questionable  charter  of  the 
people's  liberties,  young  people  may  be  kept  at  hard 
labour  for,  practically,  the  round  of  the  clock.  It  is  not 
an  impossible  thing  for  a  girl  to  work  for  seventeen  hours 
in  a  day ;  and  I  know  of  a  case  where  a  mere  child  was 
forced  to  "  put  in  "  twenty  consecutive  hours,  namely, 
from  eight  o'clock  on  Saturday  morning  to  four  o'clock 
on  Sunday  morning. 

Nothing  could  more  clearly  demonstrate  the  evil 
effect  of  the  "  emergency "  clause  in  the  Act  than  a 
comparison  between  the  worker  in  a  factory  dealing  with 
perishable  goods  and  the  worker  in  a  factory  concerned 
with  the  weaving  of  fabrics.  For  instance,  if  there  is 
pressure  of  work  in  a  textile  factory,  the  factory-girl 
goes  on  with  her  duties  comfortably  assured  that  she 


WORK  AND  WAGE  179 

will  not  be  asked  to  do  more  than  her  share.  Not  so 
with  the  girl  in  a  non-textile  factory.  She  is  in  constant 
dread  of  being  forced  to  work  overtime,  to  turn  her  day's 
honest  toil  into  a  day  of  degrading  and  exhausting 
slavery.  Again,  the  girl  in  a  textile  factory  works  in 
large  rooms  well  supplied  with  fresh  air ;  she  has 
regular  intervals  for  rest  and  food  ;  sanitation  and  ven- 
tilation are  equally  well  attended  to.  The  girl  in  a  non- 
textile  factory  is  in  a  very  different  position.  She  is  often 
obliged  to  work  under  the  most  distressing  conditions. 
Times  for  meals  are  ruthlessly  cut  down.  She  may  not 
have  even  a  crust  in  her  pocket  to  nibble  at ;  for,  in 
factories  where  comestibles  are  under  preparation,  it  is 
customary  to  impose  a  no-eating  rule  during  work-time. 
Frequently  the  workrooms  are  small  and  ill-ventilated, 
their  walls  running  with  water,  their  floors  streaming 
with  refuse.  Hair,  clothes,  and  feet  are  constantly 
saturated  ;  and  dangerous  falls  on  the  slippery  floors, 
resulting  in  sprains  and  bruises,  are  so  frequent  as  to 
excite  no  comment  save  the  inevitable  oath. 

The  fact  is  that  the  old  saying,  that  you  may  drive  a 
coach-and-four  through  any  Act  of  Parliament,  seems  to 
have  been  invented  for  an  Act  ostensibly  framed  for  the 
protection  of  the  worker.  To  take  concrete  examples. 
The  law  says  that  a  twelve  hours'  worker  in  a  non- 
textile  factory  must  have  an  hour  and  a  half  for  meals. 
My  little  friend,  "  Chirpy "  Titmarsh,  who  works  at 
a  non-textile  factory,  is  allowed  no  more  than 
an  hour.  The  law  says  that  such  a  worker  must  not 
work  at  a  stretch  for  more  than  five  hours.  "  Chirpy  " 
works  for  six  and  seven  hours  at  a  stretch.  The  law 
says  that  "  a  young  person  "  (from  fourteen  to  eighteen 
years  of  age)  is  not  to  work  overtime  unless  under 

N   2 


180  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

exceptional  circumstances.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
"  Chirpy,"  who  has  not  yet  seen  her  sixteenth  year,  is 
being  worked  to  death  because  she  has  to  choose 
between  that  and  no  work  at  all.  The  law  says  that  "  a 
woman  "  (a  person  at  least  eighteen  years  old)  may 
work  for  two  hours'  overtime — including  a  half-hour 
interval  after  five  o'clock — for  not  more  than  three  days 
a  week,  and  thirty  days  (in  the  case  of  fruit,  fish,  and 
other  perishable  articles,  fifty  days)  a  year.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  Chirpy's  widowed  mother  is  being  worked  under 
practically  no  conditions  save  the  limits  of  her  endur- 
ance. All  these  things  the  law  says,  and  all  these 
things  are  treated  with  quiet  indifference  by  the  employer 
of  labour  who  is  still  so  unregenerate  as  to  regard  the 
voluntary  work  of  the  worker  in  the  light  of  the  com- 
pulsory toil  of  the  slave. 

Will  it  be  believed,  moreover,  that  firms  who 
grind  the  faces  of  the  poor,  deliberately  deprive  the 
workers  of  a  portion  even  of  their  miserable  earnings  ? 
We  all  know  the  evils  of  "  truck,"  that  system  of 
imposition  which  is  said  to  have  fined  a  weaver 
half-a- crown  for  slaking  with  a  cup  of  cold  water 
the  burning  thirst  induced  by  working  in  a  tem- 
perature of  90° ;  but  the  pettiness  of  the  fines  imposed 
by  some  sweating  firms  almost  surpasses  belief.  Sup- 
posing, for  example,  a  girl  makes  a  great  effort,  and 
earns,  with  overtime,  ten-and-fivepence-halfpenny  in  one 
week.  When  she  presents  herself  at  the  pay-desk,  she 
will  receive,  not  ten-and-sixpence,  not  even  ten-and-five- 
pence-halfpenny, but  ten-and-fivepence,  the  extra  half- 
penny presumably  finding  its  way  into  pockets  that  have 
no  possible  right  to  it.  Sometimes  the  extortion  is 
on  a  far  more  extensive  scale.  Emily  Craboose  worked 


WORK  AND  WAGE  181 

for  fifty-five  hours  for  eight  shillings.  Because  she 
declined  to  give  up  her  Saturday  half-holiday  and  work 
for  fifty-seven  hours,  she  was  docked  of  more  than  two 
hours'  earnings,  and  received  only  seven-and-eight- 
pence ! 

"  But  why  don't  you  insist  on  getting  your  proper 
wage  ?  "  I  have  said  again  and  again. 

The  answer  has  always  been  the  same — "  Not  me ! 
unless  I  want  to  get  the  sack." 

Tyranny  of  the  kind  is  very  general.  Children  may  be 
kept  in  a  condition  of  abject  terror,  week  in  and  week 
out,  by  the  overbearing  brutality  of  a  forewoman.  A 
girl  came  to  me  for  a  hospital  letter.  She  was  very  ill ; 
I  could  see  that  at  a  glance.  She  could  not  speak  above 
a  whisper.  Obviously  she  had  once  been  beautiful ;  but 
disease  had  laid  its  paralysing  finger  upon  her,  and  the 
drooping  eyelids,  the  chalky  skin,  the  shrivelled  bust, 
all  told  the  same  sad  story.  The  cause  of  her  illness 
declared  itself  at  once  ;  she  brought  into  the  room  a 
suffocating  stench  that  stopped  the  breath.  Clothes, 
hair,  her  very  flesh  was  saturated  with  the  malodorous 
poison.  No  need  for  her  to  explain. 

"  What  hospital  ?  "  I  asked  ;  and, "  In-  or  out-patient  ?  " 

"It  ain't  likely  as  I  can  go  in,"  she  said  with  a  hoarse 
chuckle.  "  Aiit's  good  enough  for  me  ;  as  much  as  I 
can  manage,  I  guess." 

I  filled  in  an  out-patient's  letter  for  the  Victoria  Park 
Hospital,  and  the  girl  backed  out  of  my  study,  smiling 
awkwardly  but  gratefully. 

Next  day  she  brought  back  the  letter,  the  envelope  of 
which  had  become  unrecognisably  grubby. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  I  asked,  looking  anxiously  at 
the  anaemic,  colourless  face. 


1 82  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

"  'Tain't  no  use,"  she  said  ;  "  she  won't  'ave  it  nohow. 
You  should  'ave  seen  'er  face  when  I  arst  orf  to  go  to 
the  'orspital.  '  Knock  me  daiin  with  a  feather ! '  says 
she.  An'  you  could,  too.  So  I  see  as  it  meant  the  sack, 
and  cries  orf." 

The  extreme  probability  is  that  such  a  girl  will 
struggle  on  for  six  months  or  so,  collapse,  and  die  pre- 
maturely ;  or,  worse  still,  endure  long  years  of  terrible 
weakness  and  uselessness.  There  are  girls  in  the  East 
End  who  are  actually  dying  on  their  feet  because  they 
are  afraid  to  be  away  from  their  work  a  single  day. 

What  we  have  to  face,  speaking  generally,  is  the 
innate  selfishness  of  the  employer  of  labour.  There  are, 
of  course,  noble  exceptions,  but  these  only  prove  the 
rule.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  individual  is  untrust- 
worthy. It  is  futile  for  the  objector  to  honest  criticism 
to  point  out  the  increasing  humanitarianism  exhibited 
in  certain  quarters  :  the  reduction  of  hours  of  labour,  the 
adoption  of  elaborate  preventives  of  disease  and  death, 
the  schemes  for  the  compensation  of  the  injured  and  for 
the  relief  of  the  broken  in  health.  It  is  not  an  imperti- 
nent question  to  ask,  "  Have  such  firms  taken  these 
humane  and  business-like  measures  voluntarily,  or  under 
compulsion  ?  "  And  if  it  be  provable,  as  I  think  it  is, 
that  such  exalted  conceptions  of  duty  did  not  occur  to 
employers  of  labour  until  the  State  had  assumed  a 
threatening  attitude,  we  need  not  waste  our  breath  in 
eulogising  the  unselfishness  of  those  whose  only  object 
is  to  squeeze  from  the  worker  the  largest  possible 
amount  of  money-making  energy  for  the  smallest 
possible  pay. 

The  evils  are  all  on  the  side  of  the  worker,  the 
benefits  all  on  the  side  of  the  employer.  Nemesis 


WORK  AND  WAGE  183 

would  drive  the  employer  to  ruin  were  not  the  slave- 
market  practically  inexhaustible.  When  a  worker  col- 
lapses, he  is  tossed  aside  like  a  dirty  dish-clout,  and 
applicants  trample  each  other  down  in  the  struggle 
for  the  vacant  place.  The  employer  will  not  regard 
this  as  a  hardship.  He  will  declare  that  "  business  must 
be  attended  to."  Even  he,  so  he  will  assure  us,  is 
occasionally  obliged  to  work  when  he  does  not  want  to, 
and  under  conditions  which  are  injurious  to  his  health. 
Competition,  he  will  tell  us,  is  as  keen  among  employers 
as  among  workers.  Very  well.  Be  it  so.  So  far, 
employer  and  worker  are  alike.  But  is  the  employer 
under-fed,  ill-clothed,  wretchedly  housed?  Has  he 
nothing  to  look  forward  to  at  the  end  of  his  life-long 
toil  but  penury?  If  he  shows  signs  of  failing  strength, 
is  he  liable  to  lose  the  chance  of  earning  his  living  alto- 
gether? If  so,  the  cases  are  identical,  and  we  must 
extend  to  the  master  the  same  sympathy  that  we  give 
to  the  servant.  But  the  cases  are  not  identical.  For 
the  most  part,  the  employer  has  a  superabundance  of 
this  world's  goods.  He  is  clad  in  purple  and  fine  linen, 
and  fares  sumptuously  every  day.  Moreover,  his  future 
is  assured  :  humanly  speaking,  it  is  impossible  for  him 
to  end  his  days  in  the  workhouse.  The  worker  is  the 
victim  of  a  tradition.  He  is  mown  down  before  the 
pestilential  breath  of  spongy  sentiment.  "  Business 
must  be  attended  to."  That  is  one  of  the  copy-book 
moralities  which  work  his  ruin.  "  The  law  of  supply  and 
demand  must  be  submitted  to."  That  is  another.  There 
are  hundreds  of  them.  But  they  all  mean  one  thing, 
namely,  that  the  worker  is  an  inferior  person  who  must 
be  treated  in  an  inferior  way  in  order  to  make  the 
superior  person  still  more  superior. 


184  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

True,  there  are  faults  on  both  sides.  There  are  lazy 
workers  as  well  as  indifferent  and  oppressive  employers. 
But  what,  after  all,  can  we  expect  ?  Take  the  majority 
of  the  workers  of  a  great  industrial  centre  like  the  East 
End.  Dwarfed  in  mind  and  body,  untrained,  uncultured, 
mere  children  as  regards  the  stage  of  development  they 
have  reached,  are  we  right  in  expecting  of  them  the 
reasoning  powers,  the  breadth  of  view,  the  charity,  the 
long-suffering  which  are  ours  by  right  of  birth  ?  Faults 
on  both  sides?  Of  course  there  are.  But  I  contend 
that  we  expect  too  much  of  the  workers.  What  chance 
have  they,  after  all,  of  learning  duty,  honesty,  reverence  ? 
Be  it  ours,  as  their  elder  brothers  in  the  great  human 
family,  to  lead  them,  with  infinite  patience  and  unfailing 
love,  out  of  their  cramped  life  into  the  liberties  of  the 
children  of  God. 

In  spite  of  all  that  has  been  said  about  the  life  of  noble 
toil,  work,  if  not  properly  regulated,  is  debasing.  From 
such  a  point  of  view  it  is  not  impossible  to  understand 
what  Slingsby's  sister  meant  when,  on  being  invited  to 
join  our  Church  Cleaners'  League,  she  declined  on  the 
ground  that  it  was  so  "  'umblin'."  In  a  district  like 
Millwall,  where  the  only  perfumes  are  those  emanating 
from  the  chimneys  of  asbestos,  oil,  and  lead  works  ; 
where  the  only  music  is  the  clanging  and  hammering 
of  iron  in  the  yards  and  the  puffing  and  snorting  of 
engines ;  where  the  very  time  of  day  is  regulated,  not 
by  clocks,  but  by  bells  and  whistles ;  and  where  it  is 
customary  to  speak  of  the  hour  "  blowing "  instead  of 
"striking,"  work  has  attained  its  nadir  of  ignominy. 
What  heartrending  cases  one  comes  in  contact  with,  day 
by  day  !  What  tremendous  sacrifice  of  life  !  Men  and 
women  are  being  crushed  and  crippled  ;  fair  ^ young 


WORK  AND  WAGE  185 

lives  are  drooping  to  the  grave.  The  strongest,  the 
bravest  fall  and  perish.  For  what  ?  In  spite  of  the 
prevailing  cant  anent  the  business  use  of  luxuries,  the 
only  answer  is,  "  To  fill  the  already  overflowing  pockets 
of  the  wealthy,  and  to  increase  abundantly  their  super- 
abundance." 

Altogether  amazing  is  it  that  the  worker  should  be 
so  content  under  these  "  whips  and  scorns."  It  is  not 
because  he  is  unaware  of  the  larger  life  lying  beyond 
him.  He  knows  of,  although  he  does  not  share,  the 
fuller  measure  of  existence  enjoyed  by  his  rich  neigh- 
bour. The  excessive  caution  bred  in  him  by  his  stinted 
education  is  the  sole  reason  for  his  brute-like  endurance. 
When  he  is  better  educated,  he  will  revolt ;  for  he  will 
then  not  only  be  aware  of  that  outlying  life,  but  bethink 
himself  of  a  method  of  taking  part  in  it.  At  present  he 
dare  not  act ;  he  dare  not  express  himself  but  in  vague 
mutterings  ;  he  dare  not  even  think.  When  thought 
obtrudes  itself,  he  drowns  it  in  drink  or  gambling.  He 
is  not  in  a  condition  of  natural  sleep ;  he  is  under  the 
influence  of  drugs  of  his  own  administering.  But  the 
time  is  coming  when  the  better  education  he  is  gradually 
getting,  as  a  boy  at  the  day-school,  as  a  youth  at  the 
night-school,  as  a  man  in  the  lecture-hall,  will  force  him 
to  think,  in  spite  of  beer  and  horses ;  and  in  that  day 
he  will  snap  the  toils  that  bind  him  as  they  were  tow, 
and  enter,  like  the  king  he  is,  into  his  inheritance. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE   PROBLEM   OF   THE   ROOF-TREE 

"  THE  Englishman's  home  is  his  castle."  Within  the 
walls  of  that  domestic  stronghold  he  dwells  in  safety 
and  peace.  When  he  speaks  of  home,  he  means  the 
place  of  all  places,  the  charmed  retreat  whither  he  may 
fly  from  the  stress  and  strain  of  the  world,  where  he 
may  safely  commit  his  chiefest  treasures.  There  is  a 
fragrance  about  the  very  word  suggestive  of  the  confi- 
dence and  joy,  the  sanctity  and  solemnity  of  that  family 
life  which  was  ordained  from  the  beginning,  and  upon 
which  our  national  greatness  is  founded  as  upon  a  rock. 
So  much,  and  more,  does  home  mean  to  thousands  on 
thousands  of  happy  English  people.  Very  good.  That 
is  as  it  should  be. 

But  what  does  it  mean  to  that  million  of  Londoners 
who  want  decently  housing,  especially  to  those  400,000 
whose  family  life  is  spent  in  the  narrowness  and  stuffi- 
ness of  single  rooms  ?  My  friend  Bonn  is  a  respectable 
working-man.  He  rents  a  four-roomed  house.  The 
first  room  is  occupied  by  a  married  man,  his  wife 
and  four  children  ;  the  second,  by  a  bachelor ;  the  third 
and  fourth,  by  Bonn,  wife  and  four  children.  Thirteen 
persons  in  all  occupy  the  four  poky  little  rooms.  In 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE  187 

one  of  the  riverside  streets  of  this  district  there  was  a 
house  of  four  small  rooms  which  harboured  (I  use  the 
word  advisedly)  no  less  than  nineteen  persons.  In  the 
year  1901 — and  in  the  present  year,  for  aught  I  know — a 
six-roomed  house  in  this  neighbourhood  "  accommo- 
dated "  thirty  grown  people.  From  the  housing  point 
of  view,  St.  Cuthbert's  Lodge  has  had  a  romantic 
history.  The  proud  possessor  of  eight  little  rooms,  it 
has  been  in  turn  a  school,  a  beer-shop,  and  an  asylum 
for  gipsies.  Forty  years  ago,  I  am  told,  it  housed  eight 
different  families,  one  for  each  room  ;  and  within  the 
last  ten  years  it  could  boast  a  resident  population  of 
seven  adults  and  twenty-seven  children. 

In  this  East  End  we  turn  our  work-benches  into 
beds,  because  we  have  no  room  for  the  genuine  article  ; 
we  huddle  together  at  night — men  and  women,  boys  and 
girls — in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  health  and  decency. 
Think  of  a  mother,  a  father,  and  three  children  living 
between  four  walls  ten  feet  apart,  yet  finding  space  for  a 
lodger  at  night !  Think  of  a  room  doing  double  duty, 
occupied  at  night  by  day- workers  and  in  the  day  by  night- 
workers  !  Think  of  a  room  with  five  beds  in  it,  giving 
sleeping  accommodation  to  seventeen  persons  !  Does 
the  reader  want  something  even  more  startling  ?  Well, 
an  authentic  case  is  on  record  in  which  three  men  and  a 
woman  were  obliged,  for  lack  of  accommodation,  to 
sleep  in  one  bed  ! 

But  why  multiply  instances?  Overcrowding  is  an 
acknowledged  cancer  on  the  body  social.  In  some 
parts  of  London  20  per  cent.,  in  others  25  per  cent.,  of 
the  population  are  living  under  conditions  which,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  scientist  no  less  than  that  of  the 
moralist,  are  entirely  condemnable.  The  result  of  this 


1 88  SEVEN  YEARS1  HARD 

deplorable  state  of  affairs  is  loss  of  time,  loss  of  health, 
loss  of  life,  loss  of  moral  tone. 

The  loss  of  time  is  calculable,  namely,  about 
twenty  days  a  year,  sometimes  less,  sometimes 
more.  Less  or  more,  however,  it  is  a  large  slice 
out  of  a  man's  working  days.  Whence  this  loss? 
Well,  there  are  vast  armies  of  toilers  in  the  East 
End  who  are  obliged  to  travel  to  the  four  points  of 
the  compass  every  day  in  order  to  secure  the  merest 
needful  accommodation.  One  would  suppose  that,  after 
a  long  day's  work,  home,  with  its  bright  fire  and  steaming 
kettle,  would  be  the  very  least  that  these  people  could 
claim.  But  it  is  not  their  good  fortune  to  get  their 
reward  until  hours  after  they  have  earned  it. 

Who  shall  estimate  the  loss  of  health  and  life  ?  Much  of 
the  typhoid  and  consumption  so  prevalent  among  us,  not 
to  mention  the  thousand  minor  ills  which  flesh  is  heir  to, 
is  directly  traceable  to  overcrowding.  Death  has  a  busy 
time  of  it  in  closely-packed  and  insanitary  dwellings. 
Where  the  overcrowding  is  normal,  he  claims  nineteen 
per  thousand ;  where  it  rises  to  23  per  cent,  he  claims 
twenty -three  ;  where  it  rises  to  30,  he  claims  twenty-four. 

And  what  shall  we  say  of  the  most  serious  loss  of  all, 
namely,  loss  of  character  ?  Worse  than  death  itself  is 
the  degraded  life.  We  shall  get  no  high  thinking  from 
men  whose  crippled  existences  prevent  any  thinking, 
nor  the  subordination  of  the  lower  passions  from  those 
whose  cramped  environment  renders  noble  passions  in- 
conceivable. To  such  unhappy  people  what  a  mockery 
must  be  our  glib  talk  about  the  joy  and  sanctity  of 
home ! 

And  the  cause  of  overcrowding  ?  Let  us  dispose  at 
once  of  the  theory  of  natural  depravity.  It  is  true  that  the 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE  189 

East-ender  has  not  any  adequate  realisation  of  the  value 
of  cleanliness.  He  is  no  lover  of  fresh  air,  for  instance. 
I  have  managed  to  survive  in  Millwall  by  having  the 
windows  of  my  house  open  night  and  day,  summer  and 
winter.  But  the  windows  of  the  average  East-ender  are 
hermetically  sealed,  lest  some  stray  breath  of  pure  air 
should  chance  into  his  stifling  rooms.  The  factory 
chimney  belches  forth  destruction ;  and  in  that  hot 
breath  of  Dives  the  grass  withereth,  the  flower  fadeth, 
and  the  loved  life  slips  away  into  the  shadows.  But  no 
murmur  escapes  the  East-ender.  Smoke,  in  his  view,  is 
inevitable,  part  of  the  unalterable  course  of  nature  ;  and 
he  would  as  soon  think  of  opposing  it  as  he  would  think 
of  opposing  a  thunderstorm.  He  rarely  gets  even  his 
own  chimney  swept — the  profession  of  sweep  is  almost 
unknown  in  this  neighbourhood.  When  the  clogged  soot 
becomes  insufferable,  he  blows  it  out  with  a  pennyworth 
of  gunpowder. 

Well  do  I  remember,  when  we  took  over  St.  Cuthbert's 
Lodge,  what  a  battle  we  had  with  the  foe  of  filth,  although, 
in  order  to  overcome  it,  we  adopted  every  device  known 
to  the  most  up-to-date  sanitation.  There  were  living  crea- 
tures in  this  house  to  which  we  could  give  no  name, 
vermin  as  rare  as  they  were  loathsome  to  anyone  of 
ordinarily  cleanly  habits.  Especially  difficult  was  the 
extermination  of  those  insects  which,  more  than  others, 
symbolise  the  lowest  depth  of  human  foulness  ;  and  I 
recall,  not  without  a  shudder,  how  irresistible  our  club 
lads  found  the  temptation  to  break  the  monotony  of 
"  reading  "  by  slapping  their  bare  palms  on  the  things  as 
they  moved  sluggishly  up  and  down  the  walls.  As  a 
matter  of  history,  I  have  frequently  seen  the  creatures 
referred  to  crawling  over  travellers  in  the  local  'bus  ;  and 


1 90  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

it  is  a  common  experience  for  us  to  bring  from  our 
entertainments  parasitic  specimens,  doubtless  of  the 
deepest  interest  to  the  entomologist,  but  merely  irritating 
to  the  average  layman. 

We  will  admit,  then,  that,  in  the  view  of  many  East- 
enders,  cleanliness  is  not  next  to  godliness ;  or 
perhaps  we  ought  to  say  that,  in  his  view,  it  is  equal 
to  godliness  in  its  unpopularity.  But  what  does  such  an 
admission  signify  ?  Not  that  the  East-ender  desires  dirt 
any  more  than  he  desires  ungodliness,  but  that  circum- 
stances make  it  difficult  for  him  to  be  clean,  even  as  they 
make  it  difficult  for  him  to  be  godly.  His  environ- 
ment is  too  strong  for  him.  We  have  no  right  to  be 
surprised  at  his  degradation.  Our  surprise  should  be 
reserved  for  the  occasions  on  which  we  find  him,  as 
happily  we  often  do,  a  decent  and  God-fearing  citizen. 
With  all  our  superior  advantages,  there  is  no  reason 
whatever  to  believe  that  we  should  be  one  whit  better 
than  he,  were  we  under  compulsion  to  change  places 
with  him.  Some  East-enders  doubtless  might  be  cleaner 
than  they  are ;  but  so  might  some  West-enders.  If  it  be 
true,  as  indeed  it  is,  that  many  a  poor  woman  has  turned 
a  decent  house  into  a  pigsty,  it  is  equally  true  that  the 
only  reason  why  many  a  rich  woman  has  not  done  the 
same  is  because  she  has  been  able  to  pay  others  to  clean 
up  her  mess  after  her. 

And,  while  I  am  on  this  subject,  I  should  like  to  add 
that  one  of  the  most  curious  fallacies  respecting  the 
East  End  is  that,  there,  people  are  not  rightly  people 
at  all,  but  only  "  masses."  East-enders  are  no  more 
"masses"  than  West-enders.  They  are  simply  indi- 
viduals congregated  together  for  mutual  benefit.  And 
— not  to  lay  stress  on  the  aristocracy  which  every  East- 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE  191 

ender  can  claim  as  a  direct  descendant  of  our  common 
parents — the  East  End  abounds  in  gentlefolk.  To  cite 
a  few  of  the  cases  which  have  come  under  my  personal 
observation :  Gilbert's  father  is  a  physician  of  some 
distinction  ;  Mrs.  Millishaw's  grandfather  was  an 
admiral ;  an  uncle  of  Murrens'  is  an  officer  in  the  Army  ; 
Topsy's  uncle  is  a  highly-placed  official  in  India ;  while 
the  Spottmans  are  nearly  related  to  an  earl. 

Natural  depravity,  indeed !  Why,  if  the  East-ender 
were  to  follow  the  example  of  some  of  his  "  betters,"  he 
would  speedily  find  himself  in  the  gutter.  The  marvel 
is  that,  in  spite  of  the  abominably  unfair  conditions 
under  which  he  is  compelled  to  live,  he  does  manage  to 
keep  himself  tolerably  decent.  "  Abominably  unfair 
conditions,"  I  say ;  and  I  mean  it.  He  is  heavily  handi- 
capped all  round.  To  live  cheaply  one  must  be  rich. 
He,  being  poor,  pays  on  the  higher  scale  for  everything — 
heating,  lighting,  food,  sanitation,  housing,  poor-rate ; 
and  everything  he  pays  for  so  liberally  is  inferior  in 
quality.  Nothing  is  first-class  but  the  price.  He  buys 
his  coal  by  the  hundredweight,  his  gas  by  the  penny- 
worth ;  he  rents  his  house  by  the  week ;  and  for  these 
"  privileges  "  he  is  heavily  taxed. 

It  is  the  same  with  food.  As  I  write,  a  street  vendor 
is  calling  out  milk  at  a  penny  a  pint.  I  know  it  is  not 
milk ;  but  Adelina,  who  has  just  invested  in  the  stuff, 
does  not  know.  It  would  be  cheaper  for  Adelina,  in 
the  long  run,  if  she  paid  sixpence  a  quart  for  real  milk  ; 
but  she  supposes,  good,  easy  soul,  that  the  counterfeit 
will  "  do  for  baby  "  !  It  will  "  do  "  for  baby,  I  have  no 
doubt. 

Svengali  is  a  purveyor  of  ice-cream — ice-cream,  you 
observe.  He  is  largely  patronised  by  little  children, 


1 92  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

who,  on  hot  days,  cluster  round  his  barrow  by  the  score, 
eagerly  exchanging  their  halfpennies  for  dollops  of  the 
half-frozen  filth.  He  is  not  a  clean  man,  Svengali.  The 
other  day  he  sold  a  little  girl  an  "  ice-cream  "  which 
contained  four  vermin. 

So  with  housing.  Despite  the  ruinous  rental  the 
working-man  stands  at,  his  "  home  "  is  often  not  fit  for 
human  habitation.  Prendergast  showed  me  his  room 
last  week.  What  a  sight  it  was  !  The  wall-paper  was 
hanging  in  clammy  strips ;  one-third  of  the  ceiling  had 
collapsed.  Paper,  paint,  or  whitewash  had  not  been  used 
on  that  room  for  twelve  years  !  In  many  parts  of  the 
East  End  it  is  a  common  experience  for  the  rain  to  come 
through  the  roof  and  dribble  through  the  ceiling  of  living- 
room  or  bedroom.  I  had  six  years  of  that  kind  of  thing. 
Many  a  night  I  have  been  awakened  by  the  drip,  drip 
of  the  rain  on  the  counterpane.  And  I  have  been 
called  late  at  night  to  a  dying  child,  to  find  the  water 
literally  pouring  on  to  the  bed  on  which  she  was  lying. 

And,  then,  see  how  the  East-ender  is  mulcted  where, 
of  all  places,  he  would  naturally  expect  to  be 
treated  with  justice,  not  to  say  magnanimity — I  mean, 
on  his  hardly-earned  wages.  The  toiling  Millwall 
docker  pays  a  poor-rate  of  two-and-fourpence  in  the 
pound  ;  the  gentlemanly  loafer  of  Belgravia  but  two- 
pence. That  is  to  say,  the  docker  pays  fourteen  times  as 
much  as  the  "gentleman."  This  anomaly  is  due,  I  suppose, 
to  the  comfortable  doctrine  that  whatever  is,  is  right. 
But  surely  it  cannot  be  right  for  the  rich  to  leave  the 
poor  to  succour  each  other  in  their  old  age,  especially 
in  consideration  of  the  acknowledged  fact  that  the 
rich  man  is  the  chief  beneficiary  of  the  poor  man's 
labour. 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE  193 

Natural  depravity  !  I,  for  one,  decline  to  believe  that 
the  poor  are,  in  any  way,  more  depraved  than  the  rich  ; 
but  I  solemnly  assert  that  they  have  less  chance  of 
fighting  against  their  depravity.  The  cause  of  over- 
crowding must  be  sought  elsewhere. 

It  will  be  found  in  high  rents.  The  East  End  working- 
man  pays  for  house-room  a  sum  out  of  all  proportion  to 
his  income.  From  a  quarter  to  a  third  of  his  weekly 
wage  goes  to  his  "  landlord."  Try  to  realise  what  that 
means.  Say  your  income  is  £400  a  year.  You  would 
only  be  in  the  position  of  vast  numbers  of  your  fellow- 
citizens  if  for  the  most  inadequate  accommodation  you 
were  obliged  to  pay  not  less  than  £100,  and  possibly  as 
much  as  ^130  a  year.  This  you  could  do  only  by  sub- 
letting. And  that  is  precisely  what  the  working-man 
does.  Bonn,  to  whom  I  referred  a  few  pages  back, 
ought  to  be  occupying  the  whole  of  his  little  house  him- 
self. Why  is  he  not  doing  so  ?  Because  his  earnings  are 
only  twenty-four  shillings  a  week,  and  it  is  impossible 
for  him  to  take  eight  shillings  of  this  for  rent,  and  live. 

Here  are  the  actual  expenses  for  one  week  of  Cligall, 
who  has  a  wife  and  four  children  : — Meat,  ^s. ;  bread,  3^. , 
grocery,  5^. ;  coal,  is.  6d. ;  vegetables,  I s.  6d. ;  oil,  6d. ; 
furniture,  is.  6d. ;  draper,  6d. ;  beer,  is. ;  wife  (pocket), 
is.  6d. ;  husband  (pocket),  is. ;  rent>  gs.  Obviously 
something  is  wrong  in  a  poor  man's  manage  in  which  the 
rent  equals  the  cost  of  bread,  grocery  and  coal  combined. 
Cligall  is  evidently  living  beyond  his  means.  He  will 
have  to  eat  less  bread  or  pay  less  rent.  He  cannot 
eat  less  bread  without  starving,  so  he  must  pay 
less  rent.  He  may  do  so  by  refusing  the  young 
man  with  the  pencil  behind  his  ear  who  will  call  on 
Monday.  For  that  great  refusal  he  will  be  turned  out. 

O 


194  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

So  that  won't  do.  He  is  therefore  reduced  to  two 
courses  of  action :  he  must  pay  less  rent  either  by  sub- 
letting or  by  moving  into  a  smaller  house.  These  are 
the  only  ways  of  escape  from  his  predicament ;  and 
whichever  way  he  takes,  he  will  certainly  be  overcrowded, 
and  he  and  his  family  will  suffer.  He  would  gladly 
retain  his  house,  which  is  in  a  respectable  neighbourhood  ; 
but  he  cannot  afford  to  do  so.  And  be  it  observed  that 
a  premium  is  actually  placed  on  his  degradation  ;  for,  if 
he  loves  dirt,  and  is  content  to  dwell  in  slums,  he  will  be 
taxed  far  less  than  if  he  elects  to  live  in  cleanliness 
and  decency.  He  would  naturally  prefer  to  continue 
occupying  a  house  all  to  himself;  but  his  slender  re- 
sources would  break  under  the  strain.  The  object  of 
his  landlord  is  to  wring  from  him  the  highest  possible 
rent  for  the  poorest  possible  accommodation  ;  and  his 
own  object  is  to  use  the  available  accommodation  to  its 
utmost  possible  limit.  Thus  room,  house,  street,  neigh- 
bourhood, become  overcrowded  ;  and  dirt,  disease,  and 
death  have  their  fell  way.  High  rents  are  the  direct 
cause  of  overcrowding. 

And  why  are  rents  high?  Obviously,  because  the 
demand  for  houses  is  greater  than  the  supply.  If  we 
could  build  houses  in  sufficient  numbers,  rents  would  find 
their  level,  and  everybody  would  be  housed  comfortably 
and  cheaply.  It  is  because  the  population  is  so  greatly 
in  excess  of  available  house-room,  that  the  landlord  can 
ask  and  obtain  exorbitant  rents.  London's  millions  are 
increasing  by  leaps  and  bounds,  while  London's  house- 
building is  comparatively  at  a  standstill.  If  the  work- 
ing-man's rent  is  to  cease  to  be  an  intolerable  burden, 
the  number  of  houses  must  be  enormously  increased. 

What  efforts  are  being  made  in  this  direction  ?     Very 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE  195 

few,  and  those  few  almost  wholly  on  wrong  lines.  Here 
a  public  body,  there  a  private  individual,  are  mildly  exert- 
ing themselves  to  meet  the  demand  ;  but  no  adequate  at- 
tempt to  house  the  bulk  of  London's  poor  has  ever  yet 
been  made.  Take  the  London  County  Council.  So  far 
from  lessening  the  housing  difficulty,  they  have  actually 
increased  it.  To  the  ingenuous  minds  of  these  gentle- 
men the  problem  seemed  a  very  simple  one.  They 
looked  at  the  slum  areas  with  pitying  eyes,  and  their 
hearts  warmed  to  the  unhappy  dwellers  therein.  "  Let 
us  pull  down  their  rookeries  and  build  them  decent 
homes,"  they  murmured.  They  cleared  the  slum  people 
out ;  they  razed  the  slum  dwellings  to  the  ground  ;  they 
erected  in  the  place  of  them  beautiful,  beautiful  houses. 
Then,  beaming  with  benevolence,  they  said  to  the  evicted 
ones,  "  See  what  good  kind  men  we  are  !  Perhaps  you 
thought  us  harsh  when  we  turned  you  out ;  but  we  were 
only  acting  for  your  benefit.  Now  come  back  and  live 
in  comfort  and  joy ! "  But  the  evicted  ones,  who  had 
meanwhile  made  slums  for  themselves  elsewhere,  shook 
their  heads,  saying,  "  No,  thank  you  !  Your  houses  are 
high,  and  so  are  your  rents.  We  prefer  to  stay  where 
we  are  all  low  together.  Slummy,  dear  benevolent 
L.C.C.,  but  cheap!"  And  so  the  beautiful,  beautiful 
houses  are  occupied  by  clerks,  doctors,  architects,  and 
clergymen  ;  the  slum  has  become  a  highly  respectable 
neighbourhood  ;  and  rents  have  gone  up  all  round.  So 
wise ! 

Nor  has  private  philanthropy,  hysterical  and  watery- 
eyed,  done  any  better.  It  has  suffered  to  an  incredible 
degree  from  short-sightedness,  or,  rather,  from  being 
unable  to  see  more  than  one  thing  at  a  time ;  where- 
fore, its  efforts  have  frequently  resulted  in  incredible 

O   2 


196  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

absurdity.  For  instance,  in  a  certain  congested  district 
of  London,  within  a  period  of  four  years,  there  were 
admitted  into  Poor  Law  institutions  3,000  persons,  of 
whom  only  7  per  cent,  or  210,  belonged  to  that  par- 
ticular district.  How  was  that  ?  Because  the  Church 
Army  and  the  Salvation  Army  were  attracting  potential 
paupers  from  all  quarters,  whose  indigence  they  were  so 
far  from  curing  that  they  were  actually  accentuating  it 
by  providing  accommodation  which,  in  its  very  nature, 
could  not  be  other  than  temporary.  These  well-meaning 
people  were  good  enough  (or  bad  enough)  to  invite  all 
and  sundry  to  come  and  have  a  roof  over  their  heads  for 
threepence,  twopence,  or  a  penny  a  night ;  and  all  the 
ruffians  within  hail  crowded  gleefully  into  the  shelters 
provided  for  them,  and  found  themselves  worse  off 
at  the  end  of  the  week  than  they  had  been  at  the 
beginning. 

We  English  are  both  generous  and  grasping,  and  we 
never  seem  to  know  which  role  to  assume.  With  our 
right  hands  we  diligently  undo  what  we  succeed  in  doing 
with  our  left.  In  the  character  of  philanthropists  we 
honestly  try  to  house  the  working-classes ;  in  the 
character  of  business  men  we  honestly  try  to  unhouse 
them.  The  house-jobber  is  frequently  a  philanthropist 
of  the  most  definite  shade,  liberal,  open-handed,  ready 
with  a  contribution  to  any  deserving  charity.  Yet  he 
makes  enormous  capital  out  of  his  hapless  fellow- 
citizens.  His  method  is  to  buy  up  a  slum  district,  make 
the  smallest  possible  number  of  needful  repairs,  and  re- 
let  at  a  shameless  profit.  Needless  to  say,  in  a  year  or 
two  the  district  is  slummier  than  ever  ;  but  the  house- 
jobber  has  made  his  pile,  and  is  living  in  Chester 
Square. 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE  197 

Or  take  the  landowner.  Who  more  benevolent  than 
he  ?  Who  more  ready  to  give  liberally  on  behalf  of  the 
"  poor  "  from  whom  he  is  draining  blood-money  every 
day?  When  his  conscience  is  aroused,  as  it  occasion- 
ally is  in  the  depth  of  winter,  he  lulls  it  to  sleep  again 
with  the  potion  of  a  cheque,  for  which  he  receives  the 
ecstatic  thanks  of  the  clergyman  who  is  "  doing  such  a 
splendid  work  in  the  East  End,  my  dear !  " 

Or  the  employer  of  labour.  Does  he  not  provide 
reading-rooms  for  his  workers,  and  oleographs,  and 
moral  lessons?  Yet  he  has  heartlessly  destroyed 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  homes  without  making  any 
sort  of  provision  for  the  homeless.  Previous  to  the  Bill 
for  Amending  the  Housing  Act,  1903,  Londoners  were 
frequently  sufferers  from  evictions  of  this  kind.  A 
wealthy  manufacturer  wished  to  extend  his  factory.  He 
could  do  so  only  by  dislodging  those  whose  sole  offence 
was  that  they  were  in  his  way.  If  possession  be  nine- 
tenths  of  the  law,  as  it  generally  is  supposed  to  be,  the 
possessors  had  the  strongest  legal  right  to  remain  where 
they  were.  But,  alas !  such  a  right,  where  it  existed  at 
all,  was  merely  nominal.  The  manufacturer  had  wealth 
on  his  side  ;  and,  unhappily,  even  the  "  right  "  of  posses- 
sion is  powerless  against  the  "  might "  of  wealth.  So 
the  manufacturer  bought  up  the  property,  evicted  the 
tenants,  and  extended  his  factory. 

With  what  contempt  did  Saltlake  receive  my  sugges- 
tion that  it  was  his  duty  to  house  the  workers  rendered 
homeless  by  his  building  scheme  ! 

"  Business  is  business,"  said  he. 

"  Business  seems  to  be  roguery,"  said  I. 

" Business  is  business"  he  repeated. 

"  Business  should  be  Christianity,"  I  retorted. 


198  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

Then  there  was  our  good  friend  Cammenbare,  who 
contrived  the  wholesale  destruction  of  a  number  of 
houses  adjoining  his  property.  Notice  was  served  upon 
the  tenants,  some  of  whom  found  homes  elsewhere  ;  but 
others  were  at  their  wits'  ends  where  to  go.  They  had 
tramped  the  neighbourhood  for  miles  without  success. 
Either  there  were  no  houses  to  be  had,  or  those  that  were 
available  were  offered  at  a  prohibitive  rent.  Meanwhile 
the  work  of  annihilation  was  steadily  proceeding.  The 
backyards  of  the  condemned  houses  had  been  demolished, 
together  with  all  sanitary  conveniences  ;  and  the  tenants 
had  perforce  turned  the  road  into  a  kind  of  cesspool. 
The  women  were  hysterical ;  the  men,  dogged  and 
silent.  They  were  more  like  a  flock  of  worried  sheep 
than  a  company  of  human  beings.  After  I  had  heard 
their  pitiful  story  from  beginning  to  end,  I  promised  to  do 
what  I  could.  And  I  did  it.  Needless  to  explain  how. 
It  was  something  to  get  these  poor  folk  a  few  days' 
grace ;  it  was  much  more  to  be  able  to  educate  public 
opinion  on  the  matter. 

Clearly,  a  manufacturer  who,  for  private  gain,  renders 
a  number  of  innocent  people  homeless  should  be  legally 
compelled,  although  he  may  not  feel  himself  morally 
bound,  to  re-house  them.  Before  the  passing  of  the  Act, 
respectable  people,  because  they  were  poor,  were  liable, 
at  a  few  days'  notice,  to  be  driven  from  homes  endeared 
to  them  by  long  association.  No  accommodation  was 
made  for  them  in  the  neighbourhood  of  their  work  ;  and 
they  were  forced  to  herd  together  wherever  they  could, 
like  cattle  in  a  pen.  On  the  completion  of  the  new 
building,  a  fresh  swarm  of  humanity  invaded  the  already 
overcrowded  district,  and  rents  leaped  up  to  famine 
prices.  Before  Saltlake  came  to  the  East  End  you  could 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE  199 

get  a  four-roomed  house  for  six-and-sixpence  a  week  ; 
after  he  came,  ten-and-sixpence  was  asked  for  the 
same  accommodation.  One  fervently  hopes  that  the 
provisions  of  the  new  Housing  Bill  will  be  loyally  ob- 
served, and  that  it  will  not  meet  the  fate  of  many  similar 
measures  by  being  honoured  more  in  the  breach  than  in 
the  observance. 

Overcrowding,  then,  is  due  to  high  rents  ;  and  rents 
are  high  because  the  demand  for  houses  is  in  excess  of 
the  supply.  To  satisfy  the  demand,  under  existing  con- 
ditions, seems  hopeless.  Can  we  reduce  it  ?  There  are 
those  who  think  that  we  can  ;  and  they  suggest  that  we 
may  stop  the  rush  to  London  by  artificially  creating 
centres  of  activity  elsewhere.  They  draw  a  picture  of 
a  rural  population, busy  and  intelligent,  who  are  contented 
to  pass  their  days  "  far  from  the  madding  crowd's 
ignoble  strife."  The  idea  is  pretty  enough,  but  it  is  only 
an  idea  ;  it  cannot  be  reproduced  in  real  life.  A  hun- 
dred years  ago,  men  lived  in  villages  ;  to-day  they  live  in 
cities.  We  may  deprecate  the  fact ;  we  cannot  alter  it. 
Its  source  lies  in  the  deep  places  of  our  being.  In  order 
that  we  may  enjoy  the  society  of  our  fellows,  we  are 
willing  to  forego  nature's  most  precious  gifts — prosperity, 
peace,  a  painless  old  age.  These,  although  indeed  great 
blessings,  we  rightly  consider  worthless  when  compared 
with  the  doing  and  daring  of  a  life  lived  cheek  by  jowl, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  with  humanity  in  its  millions.  It 
is  true  that  the  tide  of  life,  as  it  flows  citywards,  bears 
with  it  much  that  is  useless  and  vicious  ;  but  this  is  the 
stern  price  we  must  pay  for  a  great  privilege.  We  brave 
the  company  of  the  lowest  in  order  that  we  may  enjoy 
the  company  of  the  highest. 

Nor  is  this  tendency  merely  sentimental.     Our  com- 


200  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

mercial  prosperity  depends  upon  our  ability  to  compete 
with  other  countries.  This  we  can  only  do  if  we  yield 
to  the  demand  for  economical  division  of  labour ;  and 
division  of  labour  is  possible  only  where  men  congre- 
gate in  large  numbers.  So  out  of  the  eater  comes  forth 
meat,  and  outx>f  the  curse  comes  forth  blessing.  The 
people  crowd  into  the  cities,  and  in  the  crowded  cities 
the  continuance  of  our  national  greatness  is  assured. 

In  spite  of  the  schemes  without  number  for  the 
solution  of  the  housing  problem,  the  problem  is  still 
with  us,  a  Sphinx's  riddle  of  disheartening  complexity. 
Where  shall  we  look  for  a  satisfactory  answer  ?  Not 
to  the  making  of  slums  by  the  clearing  of  slum  areas. 
Not  to  the  creation  of  overcrowding  by  the  erection  ot 
temporary  shelters.  Not  to  the  bribing  of  the  worker 
with  our  left  hand,  while  we  bleed  him  with  our  right. 
Not  to  the  reduction  of  the  number  of  would-be  tenants. 
Municipal  experiments  are  hopeless.  Philanthropical 
experiments  are  hopeless.  The  on-rushing  multitude 
has  nowhere  to  lay  its  million  heads,  and  we  grow 
hysterical  at  the  sight.  "  Where  shall  we  look  for  our 
salvation  ?  "  we  cry.  And  the  only  answer  is,  "  To  the 
land." 

"Ah,  yes!  to  the  land!"  we  say.  "Of  course! 
What  more  simple  ?  Let  us  buy  land  where  it  is  nice 
and  cheap.  There,  in  the  near  country,  lies  any  quantity 
of  it.  We  will  buy  square  miles  of  it,  we  will ;  and 
we'll  run  trams  and  trains  to  it,  we  will  ;  and  our  poor 
dear  working  people  shall  be  housed  at  last ! " 

What  a  pity  it  is  that  such  a  charming  scheme  should 
be  so  useless  !  And  why  useless  ?  Because  cheap  land 
is  dear  land  the  moment  anybody  wants  it ;  only  land 
that  nobody  wants  is  cheap.  The  effect  of  purchasing 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE  201 

land  for  building  purposes  on  the  outskirts  of  our  cities 
would  be  to  raise  the  value,  not  only  of  all  the  land  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  purchase,  but  also  of  all  the 
land  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  trains  and  trams 
running  to  it.  So  the  last  state  of  us  would  be  worse 
than  the  first.  Not  thus  will  the  land  solve  the  housing 
problem. 

We  must  go  down  to  the  very  origin  of  things,  and 
ask,  "Whose  is  the  land?  How  should  it  be  used?" 
And  I  believe  the  answers  to  those  two  questions 
will  be  found  to  be  :  First,  the  land  is  the  property 
of  the  whole  nation,  and  not  that  of  individuals,  many 
or  few ;  and,  secondly,  the  land  must  be  used  for 
the  benefit  of  the  whole  nation,  and  not  for  that  of 
individuals,  many  or  few.  There  are  certain  things, 
such  as  air  and  light,  which,  because  they  are  essential 
to  life,  belong  to  mankind  by  natural  right,  and 
are  at  the  disposal  of  all  who  live.  No  one  is  allowed 
to  appropriate  them  and  lease  them  for  gain.  So, 
one  day,  it  ought  to  be — so,  one  day,  it  shall  be — with 
land.  Land,  being  essential  to  life,  should  be  at  the 
disposal,  under  proper  regulation,  of  all  who  live ;  and 
it  ought  to  be  just  as  impossible  to  sell  land  as  it  is, 
happily,  impossible  to  sell  air  and  light.  But  it  is  not 
impossible  to  sell  land,  as  we  know  too  well ;  and  the 
unholy  traffic  goes  on  apace,  the  law  aiding  and  abetting. 
So  long  as  the  law  remains  as  it  is,  so  long  will  the 
philanthropist  be  deterred  from  building  houses  for  the 
poor,  and  so  long  will  the  speculating  landowner  find  it 
to  his  advantage  to  delay  building  until  it  suits  his 
purpose.  The  true  solution  of  the  housing  problem,  as 
of  all  human  problems  whatsoever,  is  to  put  to  use,  to 
the  highest  possible  use,  everything  that  we  possess. 


202  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

We  shall  escape  so  long  as  we  use  to  the  best  of  our 
ability,  even  though  that  best  be  imperfect  ;  but  how 
shall  we  escape  if  we  neglect  ? 

"  But  surely,"  interrupts  the  reader,  "  there  is  nothing 
to  neglect ;  every  available  square  foot  of  land,  at  least 
in  the  London  area,  either  is  already  covered  with 
houses,  or  is  in  process  of  being  covered." 

Not  so.  There  are,  at  this  moment,  thousands  of  acres 
lying  idle.  Why  is  this  land  not  built  upon  ?  The 
answer  is,  that  it  is  too  dear.  Think  of  that.  The 
rich  man  holds  these  precious  acres,  which  would 
bring  health  and  comfort  to  those  thousand-thousand 
Londoners  who  need  to  be  decently  housed.  To  the 
cry  of  the  thousand-thousand  the  rich  man  turns  a  deaf 
ear.  Like  the  dog  in  the  manger,  he  cannot  enjoy  the 
land  himself,  and  he  will  not  let  anyone  else  enjoy  it. 
The  law  gives  him  every  encouragement  to  behave  in  this 
unseemly  fashion,  recognising  two  kinds  of  land  :  that 
which  is  built  upon,  and  that  which  is  not  built  upon. 
Land  which  is  built  upon  is  assessed  at  its  building 
value,  which  is  from  £40  to  £50  per  acre ;  land  which 
is  not  built  upon  is  assessed  at  its  agricultural  value, 
namely,  .£3  to  £$  per  acre.  It  is  therefore  to  the 
interest  of  the  owner,  other  things  being  equal,  to  let 
the  land  alone  until  its  price  rises.  The  longer  he  holds 
it,  the  more  valuable  it  becomes ;  and  its  value  is 
enhanced,  not  because  he  does  anything  to  make  it  so, 
but  because  the  workers  in  its  neighbourhood  do  every- 
thing to  make  it  so.  He  is  sure  to  reap  in  due 
season  ;  and  he  will  reap,  not  according  to  his  own 
sowing,  but  according  to  that  of  other  people.  If  his 
price  is  not  accepted  to-day,  it  will  be  accepted  to- 
morrow, or  next  month,  or  a  year  hence,  or  ten  years 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE  203 

hence.  He  can  afford  to  wait  until  that  day  when,  in 
answer  to  the  cry  of  the  worker  for  a  roof  over  his  head,  the 
required  price  will  be  forthcoming.  In  a  terribly  literal 
sense,  other  men  have  laboured,  and  he  has  entered  into 
their  labours ;  and  he  actually  withholds  the  land  from 
the  people  who  have  made  it  valuable,  and  because  they 
have  made  it  valuable. 

The  law  must  be  altered.  In  what  direction?  In 
the  direction  of  limiting  the  individual's  and  increasing 
the  State's  power  over  the  land.  This  limitation  on  the 
one  hand,  and  increase  on  the  other,  must  go  on  until 
the  eighty  million  acres  of  land  in  Great  Britain  belong 
to  the  forty  million  dwellers  on  that  land.  This,  the 
nationalisation  of  the  land,  should  be  the  objective  of 
every  true  reformer  ;  and,  however  much  it  may  be 
delayed,  it  should  never  be  lost  sight  of.  One  need  not 
be  a  prophet  to  foretell  that  this  great  reform  will  come 
as  surely  as  to-morrow's  sun  will  rise.  But  it  may  be 
a  long  time  in  coming.  Meanwhile,  what  practical  effort 
can  be  made  in  the  direction  of  limiting  the  individual's 
power  over  the  land,  and  so  releasing  it  for  the  use  of 
the  community?  The  answer  is  simplicity  itself:  the 
cause  of  overcrowding  being  the  rating  of  unoccupied 
land  at  its  agricultural  and  not  at  its  building  value,  the 
cure  of  overcrowding  will  be  found  in  rating  unoccupied 
land  at  its  building  and  not  at  its  agricultural  value. 
The  State  must  insist  that  the  landlord  bear  his  share 
of  the  taxation.  At  present  he  escapes  with  the  merest 
travesty  of  taxation,  no  matter  how  his  land  has  increased 
in  value  without  any  effort  on  his  part ;  while  the 
workers,  whose  diligence  has  raised  the  price  of  his 
land,  have  to  bear  an  intolerable  burden.  To  leave 
unoccupied  land  practically  untaxed,  as  the  law  permits 


204  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

it  to  be  at  present,  is  to  endow  with  a  great  privilege 
the  already  privileged,  and  to  saddle  with  a  heavy 
burden  the  already  overburdened.  Since  money  must 
come  from  somewhere,  obviously  if  it  does  not  come 
from  the  rich,  it  must  come  from  the  poor ;  so  that  the 
poor  are  not  only  the  effective  instruments  of  the  in- 
creased value  of  land,  but  are  taxed  because  they  are. 
Economically  it  would  have  been  better  for  them  had 
they  not  been  industrious,  but  had  left  the  land  in  its 
primitive  condition. 

For  example,  thirty  years  ago,  a  wealthy  speculator 
named  Alick  Shinder  bought  a  piece  of  land  in  the 
East  End  for  which  he  paid  £200  an  acre.  This  land 
is  now  in  the  midst  of  a  working  population,  whose 
industry  has  raised  its  value  to  £700  an  acre.  For  the 
sake  of  argument  we  will  suppose  that  Shinder  may 
lawfully  claim  the  £500  increment ;  although,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  sum  represents  not  his  work  but  that 
of  other  people.  Let  him  have  his  £700  per  acre,  how- 
ever ;  but  let  the  State,  as  a  matter  of  simple  justice, 
rate  him  on  the  basis  of  £700  per  acre,  and  not,  as  at 
present,  on  the  basis  of  £200.  That  is  all  that  is  asked  ; 
and,  simple  though  it  appears,  it  would  be  sufficient  to 
change  the  whole  of  the  working-man's  outlook.  At 
present  he  is  incredibly  hampered,  and  not  least  by  his 
self-styled  friends.  These  well-meaning  persons  make 
great  efforts  to  get  the  working-man's  wages  raised, — 
and  allow  the  increment  to  drop  into  the  landlord's 
pocket.  They  are  eloquent  in  their  advocacy  of  free 
trade, — and  leave  the  source  of  all  trade,  the  land, 
under  the  thumb  of  the  speculator.  Meanwhile,  their 
protege  is  attempting  the  impossible.  He  gallantly  runs 
the  race  that  is  set  before  him  ;  but  the  faster  he  runs, 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  ROOF-TREE  205 

the  heavier  he  is  handicapped.  He  works  with  a  will, 
remembering  the  rest  that  follows  labour ;  but  the 
harder  he  works,  the  less  chance  has  he  of  rest.  He 
scrapes  and  saves  for  the  days  of  weakness  that  are 
coming  ;  but  the  more  he  earns,  the  more  he  is  mulcted 
of  his  earnings. 

If  we  would  raise  the  working-man,  we  must  house 
him ;  and  we  shall  never  succeed  in  housing  him  until 
we  have  given  the  authorities  power  to  say  to  the 
landlord — 

"  Your  land  is  wanted  by  the  community.  You  may 
do  two  things  with  it,  but  not  a  third.  You  may  build 
on  it ;  you  may  let  us  build  on  it ;  but  you  shall  not 
leave  it  alone" 


CHAPTER    IX 

SOUP-TICKET   PHILANTHROPY 

DISTRICT  visiting  is  not  what  it  used  to  be.  The 
amiable  and  incapable  young  person,  who  fluttered  from 
door  to  door  with  a  basket  of  material  food  in  one  hand 
and  a  bundle  of  spiritual  food  in  the  other,  is  gone  for 
ever.  Her  place  has  been  taken  by  the  "worker." 
That  name  has  its  disadvantages.  Young  Darwin 
waylaid  me  one  Monday,  smiling  all  over  his  body. 

"  I've  told  Jim  about  your  Workers'  Meeting,"  he 
said. 

"  Who  is  Jim  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  My  big  brother.     'E's  a  worker,  if  you  like." 

"  Where  does  he  work  ?  " 

"  Millwall  Dock.  Earns  twenty-four  bob  a  week,  Jim 
does." 

"  But,  my  dear  boy,"  I  murmured  faintly,  remembering 
my  wife  and  the  drawing-room  carpet,  "  the  meeting  is 
for  parish  helpers — district  visitors,  Sunday  School 
teachers,  and  so  on." 

Young  Darwin  regarded  me  with  ill-concealed  con- 
tempt :  "  Parish  'elpers  ?  Wy,  you  said  it  was  for 
workers? 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     207 

But  there  are  other  objections  to  the  modern 
"  worker  "  much  more  serious  than  her  name.  She  is 
extremely  up-to-date  ;  she  is  very  conscientious  ;  she  is 
careful  to  the  point  of  cunning;  she  is  diplomatic  to 
the  point  of  duplicity ;  yet  she  is  not  a  success.  She 
lacks  love. 

Tact  can  do  much ;  love  can  do  all.  To  say  the 
exact  thing  at  the  exact  moment ;  to  smile  when  irri- 
tated ;  to  speak  sweetly  when  angry ;  to  whittle  down 
strong  condemnation  into  faint  praise  :  so  much  tact 
can  accomplish,  and  does.  But  it  is  a  terribly  dangerous 
weapon  for  the  use  of  any  but  the  wisest.  In  the  East 
End  it  has  wrought  an  inconceivable  amount  of  mischief, 
destroying  the  possibility  of  free  intercourse,  clouding 
with  suspicion  the  most  hopeful  enterprises,  casting  up 
walls  of  cold  granite  between  souls  which  should  have 
enjoyed  happy  communion,  and  teaching  the  poor  to 
cover  their  raging  wrath  with  a  wretched  assumption  of 
meekness. 

What  the  East  End  wants  is  love  ;  what  the  East 
End  is  ready  to  give,  in  return,  is  love.  People  upon 
whom  argument,  moral  suasion,  even  bribery,  are  abso- 
lutely lost,  who  are  totally  unimpressed  by  cautious 
cleverness  or  studied  openness,  are  amenable  to  this 
mysterious  force.  Love  is  the  reward  of  those  who 
never  forget  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  although  they 
may  forget  their  sins,  and  who  never  allow  tact  to  blunt 
the  edge  of  their  sympathy,  or  cowardice  their  sense  of 
justice.  To  inspire  reverence  in  the  irreverent,  tender- 
ness in  the  hardened,  enthusiasm  in  the  indifferent, 
trust  in  the  faithless,  love  in  the  loveless,  is  the  business 
of  love,  and  of  love  alone. 

The  up-to-date  worker  has  somehow  fallen  flat.     Her 


208  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

condescension  is  so  condescending.  She  can  never 
forget  herself.  She  is  everlastingly  remembering  what 
is  due  to  her  position.  She  is  always  very  religious,  yet 
she  is  not  religious  enough.  She  makes  long  prayers  ; 
yet  she  would  as  little  think  of  using  the  word  "  God  " 
or  "  Christ "  in  her  visits  among  the  poor  as  she  would 
of  using  that  of  "  Zeus  "  or  "  Aphrodite."  These  are 
for  the  church,  not  for  the  home  ;  for  the  confessional, 
not  for  the  front  parlour.  She  will  talk  glibly  of  the 
value  of  thrift,  of  fresh  air,  of  a  sound  education ;  but 
the  watchwords  of  religion,  "  salvation,"  "  redemption," 
"  fatherhood,"  those  battle-cries  of  the  soul  which  have 
plucked  many  a  brand  from  the  burning,  are  ignored  by 
her.  This  may  be  due  in  part  to  constitutional  shyness, 
to  the  fear  of  obtruding  sacred  things  into  trivial  con- 
versation ;  but  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  it  arises 
almost  wholly  from  the  professional  view  the  up-to-date 
worker  takes  of  her  work.  She  can  organise  a  demon- 
stration, run  a  "  treat "  or  a  tea-meeting,  sit  for  hours 
on  boards,  committees  and  sub-committees  ;  but  she 
shrinks  from  admitting  the  canaille  to  a  share  of  her 
loftiest  emotions,  and  is  devoutly  thankful  that  in  her 
Father's  house  are  many  mansions. 

Miss  Granville's  relations,  as  Mrs.  Trotters  once  con- 
fidentially informed  me,  were  "  upper."  One  of  her 
uncles,  it  seems,  was  a  peer ;  another,  an  M.P.  Her 
cousin  had  been  a  Lord  Mayor.  She  herself  was  a  holy 
woman,  much  given  to  good  works ;  but  her  family 
was  her  weakness.  Some  one  once  addressed  her  as 
Miss  Granvile,  omitting  an  "  1,"  and  thus  innocently 
suggesting  a  connection  with  the  well-known  sausage- 
makers.  The  lady's  saintly  face  was  distorted  with 
fury ;  and  she  punished  herself  for  her  unseemly  anger 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     209 

by  limiting  herself  to  two  crusts  for  her  daily  dinner 
duri  ng  the  whole  of  Lent. 

Yet,  in  her  pitifully  narrow  way,  Miss  Granville's 
ambition  was  to  be  loved  by  the  poor.  Try  as  she 
might,  however,  she  could  not  win  their  affection.  The 
reason  was  not  far  to  seek  :  she  felt  herself  to  be  among 
them,  but  not  of  them  ;  and  they,  for  their  part,  were 
acutely  conscious  of  the  distinction.  She  could  be 
charming  to  them  because  she  supposed  herself  to  be 
separated  from  them  by  an  impassable  social  gulf;  but 
to  those  whom  she  suspected  of  being  on  an  equality 
with  herself,  or  of  claiming  to  be,  she  could  be  as  cutting 
as  the  east  wind. 

We  gave  a  party,  one  evening,  to  the  poorest  of  our 
folk — it  was,  of  course,  long  before  we  came  to  Millwall — 
and  Miss  Granville  was  invited  "  to  meet  a  few  friends." 
Instantly  all  her  family  pride  rose  up  in  arms.  The 
thought  of  the  peer,  the  M.P.,  and  the  Lord  Mayor 
was  too  much  for  her.  She  sent  a  polite  but  decided 
refusal.  We  spent  a  charming  evening  in  our  drawing- 
room,  our  dear  people  thoroughly  enjoying  themselves  ; 
and  when  we  broke  up,  we  felt  we  had  got  nearer  to 
each  other  than  ever  before. 

"  So  sorry  you  couldn't  come  yesterday,"  observed 
my  wife,  on  meeting  the  great  lady  next  day. 

"  I  was  otherwise  engaged,"  was  the  stiff  reply. 

"  A  pity !  I  wanted  to  introduce  you.  The  poor 
dears  had  such  a  happy  time.  They  looked  so  nice  in 
their  best  bibs  and  tuckers." 

Miss  Granville's  pale  face  flushed  crimson.  There  was 
a  moment  of  utter  bewilderment ;  then,  suddenly,  she 
turned  ashy  pale,  and,  forgetful  of  all  discretion,  stam- 
mered— 

P 


210  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  party  of  your  own  friends." 

"  So  it  was,"  said  my  wife. 

Miss  Granville  imagined  that,  in  some  mysterious 
fashion,  her  destiny  was  of  a  different  kind  from  that  of 
the  people  among  whom  she  "  worked."  She  had  not 
learnt  to  identify  herself,  for  weal  or  woe,  with  her  poorer 
brothers  and  sisters. 

An  inexhaustible  belief  in  the  possibilities  of  every 
human  soul  is  of  the  very  essence  of  Christianity.  For 
the  worker,  all  other  qualities  put  together  are  of  less 
importance.  In  every  man,  however  low  he  may  have 
sunk,  there  is  an  element  of  goodness,  some  remnant  of 
that  Divine  Image  after  whose  likeness  he  was  fashioned, 
and  into  whose  likeness  he  shall  one  day  be  restored. 
The  worker  can  fall  into  no  more  fatal  error  than  to 
suppose  that  the  abandoned  wretch,  grovelling  in  the 
swine's  trough  of  his  passions,  is  capable  of  reformation 
only  up  to  a  certain  point.  Yet  that  is  precisely  the  kind 
of  mistake  into  which  the  worker  is  apt  to  fall.  She 
regards  it  as  her  bounden  duty  to  persuade  the 
"  masses "  to  accept  the  clubs,  drills,  and  dances  pro- 
vided for  them,  these  being  the  recognised  means  of 
"  getting  hold  "  of  them.  So  far  she  is  right.  To  expel 
the  devil  of  mischief  by  creating  harmless  interests,  to 
drive  dull  care  away  by  uproarious  gaiety,  is  good  as 
far  as  it  goes.  But  it  does  not  go  far  enough.  I  was 
lamenting  to  another  worker  of  the  Granville  type  the 
difficulty  of  getting  the  lowest  classes  in  touch  with 
religion.  "  I  wish  we  could  somehow  induce  them  to 
come  to  church,"  I  said,  "  and  so  lead  them  up  gradually 
to  Confirmation  and  Communion." 

Church  !      Confirmation  !  !      Communion  ! !  !  gasped 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     211 

the  worker.  "  Oh  dear,  no  !  I  don't  agree  with  you  at 
all.  They  are  totally  unfit  for  such  things." 

She  lacked  imagination,  you  see ;  and  people  who 
lack  imagination  should  not  be  trusted  to  work  among 
the  poor.  Yet  they  abound.  I  remember  there  was  a 
man  on  one  of  the  East  End  committees  on  which  I 
used  to  serve,  who  was  of  a  light-hearted  disposition,  and 
would  occasionally  venture  a  remark  of  an  unbusiness- 
like character.  Curious  it  was  to  observe  the  freezing 
expression  on  the  women's  faces.  To  laugh  would  have 
been  unprofessional,  so  laughter  was  barred,  and  in  its 
place  appeared  a  fearful  expression  of  aloofness,  or  an 
icily  forbidding  smile,  such  as  one  would  humour  a 
lunatic  with.  Now  a  joke,  the  rougher  the  better, 
appeals  to  the  East-ender  when  more  solid  reasoning 
ignominiously  fails.  Therefore,  it  is  important  that  the 
philanthropist  should  season  his  example,  no  less  than 
his  precept,  with  wit  Under  the  most  favourable 
circumstances  he  will  succeed  in  realising  but  a  small 
proportion  of  his  dreams  for  the  betterment  of  the 
people  ;  without  a  plentiful  supply  of  Attic  salt  he  will 
assuredly  fail  altogether.  When  the  worker  has  a 
tongue,  her  sphere  of  mischief  is  enormous  ;  when,  in 
addition,  her  conscience  is  placed  in  the  keeping  of  her 
confessor,  it  is  practically  unlimited  ;  and  when  to  these 
qualifications  she  adds  incurable  ignorance,  and  there- 
fore indomitable  vanity,  she  is  like  to  strike  the  stars. 

At  present  the  only  qualification  an  East  End  worker 
need  possess  is  inability  to  be  anything  else.  This  is 
wrong.  Since  the  East-ender  is  undeveloped,  it  is  of 
the  utmost  importance  to  allow  none  but  the  highly 
developed  to  have  dealings  with  him.  To  permit  any- 

P  2 


212  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

one,  irrespective  of  character,  education,  or  ability,  to 
"  work  among  the  poor,"  which  in  plain  English  means 
to  work  disaster,  is  in  the  highest  degree  criminal. 
Incompetence  in  every  other  department  of  life  is  no 
longer  the  only  certificate  required  of  the  schoolmaster  ; 
and  even  doctors  must  now  know  something  of  the  art 
of  healing.  Yet,  so  far  are  we  from  realising  the  pro- 
found importance  of  the  work  of  raising  the  "  masses," 
that  we  cheerfully  commit  this  all  but  impossible  task  to 
quite  impossible  people  ;  and  the  ranks  of  the  "  workers  " 
are  filled  to  overflowing  with  an  inglorious  company  ot 
meddlers  and  muddlers. 

A  word  on  the  Women's  Settlement.  No  man 
has  more  cause  than  I  to  be  grateful  to  individual 
Settlement  workers.  I  shall  never  forget  the  unaffected 
generosity  of  Miss  Hilda  Barry  (now  Mrs.  Reginald 
Fremantle),  herself  a  pioneer  on  Settlement  lines.  Yet 
few  men,  I  imagine,  have  less  belief  in  the  Settle- 
ment ideal.  May  I  be  permitted,  without  prejudice,  to 
enumerate,  as  they  occur  to  me,  my  main  objections.  To 
begin  with,  it  is  a  capital  error  to  house  a  Settlement 
in  a  huge  building.  Small  dwellings,  more  nearly 
corresponding  to  those  of  the  poor,  would  be  infinitely 
more  appropriate.  Better  still  would  it  be  for  ladies 
to  board  and  lodge  together  in  couples.  It  is  true  that 
the  largeness  and  system  of  a  Settlement  are  in  touch 
Hrith  this  age  of  bigness  and  organisation  ;  it  is  also 
true  that  such  a  place  appears  to  strike  at  individualism 
in  a  very  real  fashion  ;  but  it  is  equally  true  that  a  big 
Settlement  unnecessarily  punctuates  the  division  between 
rich  and  poor,  and  is  worse,  if  anything,  than  a  big 
vicarage. 

Then,  as  to  the  claim  of  independence.     The  position 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     213 

in  which  the  Settlement  places  well-meaning  women  is 
little  short  of  ludicrous.  Coming,  for  the  most  part, 
from  villages  where  the  parochial  system  is  everything, 
they  are  obliged  to  learn  that,  from  the  Settlement 
point  of  view,  the  parochial  system  is  nothing.  Should 
they  go  to  their  parish  church,  they  like  it  to  be 
distinctly  understood  that  they  do  so,  not  as  parishioners, 
but  as  independent  workers  ;  and,  in  order  to  emphasise 
this  attitude  of  theirs,  they  as  often  as  not  dispense 
their  patronage  elsewhere.  Indeed,  they  are  told  off  for 
duty  in  the  various  parishes,  much  as  soldiers  might  be ; 
and  they  are  as  rigid  in  obedience  to  their  superior  as 
they  are  detached  in  their  relation  to  their  parish  clergy. 
Once  upon  a  time — and  I  mention  the  incident  merely 
to  illustrate  my  point,  and  in  no  spirit  of  resentment — a 
Settlement  lady  brought  me  a  candidate  for  confirmation. 
I  enrolled  the  girl  a  member  of  my  class,  put  her  through 
a  thorough  course  of  instruction,  presented  her  to  the 
Bishop,  got  her  confirmed,  and  was  rewarded  by  seeing 
her  dragged  off  to  another  parish  to  make  her  first  Com- 
munion !  A  straw  will  show  which  way  the  stream  flows. 
The  Women's  Settlement  aims  at  being  independent, 
and  succeeds  in  being  objectionable.  Its  residents 
imagine  themselves  free  lances,  and  insist  on  their  house 
being  regarded  as  private.  Neither  contention  is  admis- 
sible. No  churchwoman  can  possibly  be  a  free  lance  so 
long  as  the  parish  exists ;  and  no  Settlement,  which  in 
its  very  nature  is  a  public  house,  can  claim  the  privileges 
of  a  private  one.  For  all  I  know,  the  parish  ideal  may 
turn  out  to  be  wrong,  and  the  Settlement  ideal  right ; 
but  I  am  quite  convinced  that  both  cannot  be  right,  and 
that  the  Tightness  of  the  one  involves  the  wrongness  of 
the  other.  The  Settlement  ideal  is  as  opposed  to  the 


2i4  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

parochial  ideal  as  minus  to  plus  ;  and,  therefore,  as  long 
as  the  parochial  ideal  is  concretely  represented  in  our 
midst,  I  conceive  it  to  be  my  duty  to  support  it  and  not 
its  opposite.  Nor  is  there,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  any  pos- 
sibility of  real  union.  The  Settlement  cannot  be  grafted 
on  to  the  parish  unless  it  shares  the  life  of  the  parish  ; 
and  it  cannot  share  the  life  of  the  parish  in  any  true 
sense,  because  it  is  independent.  Things  so  antagonistic 
may  be  dovetailed,  but  not  grafted.  The  Settlement  is 
virtually  a  parish  in  itself,  its  head  being  the  parish 
priestess.  It  owes  no  allegiance  beyond  its  four  walls. 
It  is  an  up-to-date  nunnery,  and  will  probably  share  the 
fate  of  the  mediaeval  monasteries.  Its  continued  exist- 
ence is  impossible  in  any  parish  where  Churchmen  are 
loyal  to  their  head  ;  where,  for  any  reason,  they  are  other- 
wise, it  will  live ;  but  its  life  will  ultimately  be  the 
death  of  the  parish.  There  is  no  reason,  however,  why 
the  Settlement  theory  should  not  be  applied  beneficently 
in  practice.  Let  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  who 
feel  the  call,  come  to  live  in  the  East  End,  in  comfort 
but  not  in  luxury,  in  families  and  not  in  celibacy  ;  let 
them  come  swept  clean  of  mouldy  traditions  respecting 
the  "  classes  "  and  the  "  masses  "  ;  let  them  come  imbued 
through  and  through  with  the  sense  of  humanity's  claim 
on  humanity  ;  let  them  come  to  learn  rather  than  to 
teach  ;  let  them  come  to  live  the  common  life  in  an  un- 
common manner ;  and  the  redemption  of  the  East  End 
will  prove  no  impossible  dream. 

The  Church  parson — to  say  nothing  of  Nonconformist 
ministers  of  many  denominations — is  ready  for  them, 
ready  to  use  them  in  every  conceivable  way.  He  is  no 
longer  merely  a  gentleman  ;  he  is  priest  and  pastor, 
although  remnants  of  the  old  "  gentlemanly  "  tradition 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     215 

still  linger.  Mrs.  Shopan,  who  occasionally  comes  to  me 
for  counsel  and  comfort,  never  allows  me  to  forget  that 
fact,  for  she  invariably  excuses  herself  for  "  troubling  me  " 
in  these  identical  terms :  "  I  come  to  you,  Mr.  Free,  as  a 
Catholic  goes  to  his  priest."  Poor  soul !  Little  does  she 
guess  how  that  pitiful  apology  stabs.  It  is  a  terrible  in- 
dictment of  our  much-vaunted  Protestantism,  when  you 
think  of  it,  sweeping  us  back  to  the  dark  ages  of  the 
eighteenth  century. 

But  most  things  have  changed  in  a  hundred  years, 
and  with  them,  as  I  say,  the  parson.  In  the  East  End 
he  is  at  his  best.  One  has  nothing  but  praise  for  his 
self-denying  and  devoted  work.  The  way  in  which  he 
maintains  a  cheerful  exterior  amid  all  the  distressing 
and  depressing  conditions  of  his  labour  is  beyond  all 
praise.  His  life  is  terribly  exacting  ;  his  difficulties  are, 
in  very  deed,  well-nigh  overwhelming. 

Is  it  surprising  that  the  flesh  in  him  sometimes  rebels  ? 
From  time  to  time,  terrible  stories  reach  us  of  indolence, 
drunkenness,  and  still  worse  failings  on  the  part  of  some 
East  End  clergymen.  What  is  the  remedy  for  this 
state  of  things  ?  The  answer  is,  Shorter  incumbencies. 
Priests  of  piety  and  ability  are  left  in  the  East  End  for 
twenty,  thirty,  even  for  forty  years.  A  man  is  not  a 
machine.  In  spite  of — nay,  in  consequence  of — the  stern 
discipline  of  his  life,  the  East  End  parson  has  his  bursts 
of  uncontrollable  longing.  Let  him  clip  the  feathers  of 
his  fancy  as  he  will,  they  are  always  growing  again,  and 
at  inopportune  moments  are  apt  to  snatch  him  from  his 
sordid  surroundings  and  plunge  him  into  the  vortex  of 
the  unknown.  Little  wonder  if  he  returns  from  some  of 
these  involuntary  excursions  with  his  white  wings  soiled. 
The  stupidity  of  leaving  a  man  for  the  whole  of  his  life 


216  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

in  a  parish  where  he  has  no  one  to  chat  to,  no  one  to  call 
on,  no  elevating  influence  of  any  kind  to  break  the  dull 
monotony  of  his  life,  is  unpardonable ;  and  until  those 
responsible  make  some  move  in  the  direction  of  a  freer 
shuffling  of  livings,  so  that  one  section  of  men  shall  not 
have  all  the  plums,  while  another  has  all  the  stones,  we 
may  expect  to  continue  to  be  shocked  by  serious  defec- 
tions from  the  very  strait  and  narrow  way  of  East  End 
clerical  life. 

Overwhelming,  I  say,  is  the  slum  parson's  work.  The 
statement  may  appear  exaggerated  to  those  who  are 
ignorant  of  the  conditions  under  which  such  work  is 
done.  Even  people  who  ought  to  know  better  have  the 
most  limited  views  of  the  matter.  Again  and  again  I 
have  been  asked,  with  annoying  naivete^  "  But  what  do 
you  do  ?  There  are  your  sermons  on  Sundays,  of 
course ;  but  the  rest  of  the  week  you  have  to  yourself, 
haven't  you  ?  "  To  the  East  End  parson  who  recognises 
his  duty,  every  waking  moment,  and  many  moments 
that  should  be  given  to  sleep,  are  devoted  to  the  con- 
sideration of  the  best  methods  of  fulfilling  it.  He  must 
literally  be  all  things  to  all  men.  In  my  own  work,  for 
instance — and  I  quote  it  because  I  know  more  about  it 
than  about  that  of  any  other  man — it  has  been  necessary 
for  me  to  officiate  at  all  Communions,  baptisms,  and 
churchings  ;  to  preach  and  pray  in  the  street  as  well  as 
in  the  church  ;  to  visit  the  sick  and  the  whole ;  to 
superintend  the  Sunday  School ;  to  train  a  choir,  drill  a 
brigade,  run  a  men's  club,  run  a  lads'  club,  run  all  sorts 
of  excursions,  address  men  and  boys,  address  women, 
keep  church  accounts,  play  the  piano,  recite  Sims,  sing  a 
comic  song,  eject  disturbers  of  the  peace,  settle  quarrels, 
accept  the  advice  of  friendly  enemies,  and  keep  the 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     217 

financial  pot  boiling.  And,  lest  the  reader  should  still 
be  sceptical,  here  are  particulars  of  two  of  my  working 
days.  Few  East  End  clergymen  do  less,  I  imagine, 
while  many  do  a  great  deal  more.  I  need  scarcely  add, 
perhaps,  that  the  record  is  not  imaginary :  it  is  actual 
fact  from  beginning  to  end. 

First  Day. — 8.20  a.m.,  breakfast ;  9,  investigate,  as 
school  manager,  certain  suggested  improvements ;  9.30, 
examine,  with  inspector,  houses  in  which  draining  is  re- 
ported defective ;  10,  morning  prayer  in  church  ;  10.30, 
call  on  sick  woman;  n  to  I,  interviews;  I  p.m., 
luncheon  ;  2,  walk  a  mile  and  a  half  to  Poplar ;  3  to  5, 
take  chair  at  a  committee  meeting ;  5,  walk  home ;  6, 
evening  prayer  in  church  ;  7,  dinner  ;  7.45,  churchings  ; 
8,  baptisms ;  8.30,  teachers'  instruction  ;  9,  lay  helpers' 
business  meeting. 

Second  Day. — 8  a.m.,  morning  prayer  in  church  ;  8.30, 
breakfast;  10  to  11.30,  interviews;  11.30,  religious 
instruction  in  school;  12,  interviews;  i,  luncheon;  2, 
visits  ;  3.20,  address  mothers'  meeting  ;  4,  interviews  and 
visits  ;  6,  meeting  with  Sunday  School  superintendents  ; 
6.30,  dinner  ;  7.30,  business  meeting  ;  8,  visit  dying  man  ; 
8.30,  lecture  ;  9.30,  interviews. 

Let  the  reader  fill  in  the  interstices  of  such  days  with 
the  hundred-and-one  duties,  both  public  and  private, 
inseparable  from  the  parson's  life — callers  who  must  be 
seen,  letters  that  must  be  written,  news  that  must  be 
digested,  courtesies  that  must  be  exchanged,  knotty 
points  that  must  be  thought  out :  minor  matters  all,  but 
matters,  nevertheless,  which  will  brook  no  delay — and  he 
will  not  go  far  wrong  in  concluding  that  the-  East  End 
parson's  life  is  not  a  lazy  one. 

Wonder  is  sometimes  expressed  that  the  parson  col- 
lapses after  ten  or  fifteen  years'  service.  The  reason  is 


2i 8  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

not  far  to  seek.  He  is  for  ever  pouring  forth  the  best 
that  is  in  him,  well  aware  that  there  is  none  to  whom  he 
can  look  to  fill  the  drained  cisterns  of  his  soul.  He  is 
subjected  to  the  severest  censure  if  he  leaves  undone  any 
of  the  multitudinous  things  he  ought  to  have  done,  or 
ventures  to  do  in  any  wise  the  things  he  ought  not  to 
have  done.  Worse  than  all,  his  best  helpers  are  con- 
stantly migrating,  he  himself,  with  a  topsy-turvydom 
suggestive  of  one  of  Mr.  Gilbert's  plays,  being  the  un- 
willing instrument  in  the  thinning  of  his  congregation 
and  the  denuding  of  his  parish  ;  for  his  humanity  com- 
pels him  to  do  his  best  to  remove  from  the  sorrows  and 
temptations  of  the  East  End  those  whose  natural 
faculties  promise  a  happier  career  elsewhere. 

Earnest  efforts,  then,  by  workers  lay  and  clerical,  good, 
bad,  and  indifferent,  are  being  made  to  reform  the 
East  End.  With  what  success  ?  I  suppose  that  the 
most  optimistic  of  us  will  scarcely  maintain  that  the 
efforts  put  forth  are  accomplishing  what  might  legiti- 
mately be  expected  of  them.  That  something  is  being 
done  towards  the  removing  of  the  obloquy  of  past 
neglect,  no  one  will  deny  ;  but  that  that  something  is  of 
very  great  moment,  I  imagine  few  would  insist.  The 
most  indifferent  student  of  the  East  End  cannot  be 
without  a  suspicion  of  "  something  rotten  in  the  state 
of  Denmark."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  efforts  of 
philanthropy  are  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  results.  In 
proof  of  our  success,  we  point  to  our  clubs  for  both 
sexes  and  all  ages,  to  our  Sunday  Schools,  to  our  social 
functions.  But,  before  giving  way  to  unlimited  joy, 
there  are  certain  questions  which  we  are  in  duty  bound 
to  ask  ourselves,  such  as,  What  becomes  of  our  boys 
and  girls  when  they  pass  into  the  world  ?  Do  they  hold 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     219 

to,  or  do  they  desert,  the  Faith  in  which  they  have  been 
reared  ?  What  proportion  of  the  members  of  our  clubs 
are  in  living  connection  with  religion  ?  How  much  of 
our  parochial  machinery  is  merely  mechanical  ?  how 
much,  material  means  to  spiritual  ends  ?  It  ill  becomes 
us  to  boast  so  much.  The  net  result  of  our  restless  energy 
will  be  found  in  our  empty  churches  and  in  almost 
universal  indifference  to  religion.  Let  us  be  frank  in 
the  matter.  We  have  failed,  and  ignominiously  failed, 
to  make  the  working  people  of  the  East  End  either  God- 
fearing or  God-loving.  We  have  piped  unto  them,  and 
they  have  not  danced  ;  we  have  mourned  unto  them, 
and  they  have  not  lamented. 

It  is  not  easy  to  determine  at  whose  door  to  lay  this 
gigantic  failure.  It  seems  pretty  clear,  however,  that  a 
large  share  of  responsibility  rests  with  the  Church  of 
England.  Had  she  done  her  duty  in  the  past,  much  of 
the  prevailing  indifference  might  have  been  prevented. 
But  she  repeated  for  the  millionth  time  the  story  of  the 
man  in  possession.  Others  had  laboured,  and  she  had 
entered  into  their  labours  ;  and  all  was  so  safe  and 
prosperous  that  she  was  tempted  to  sing  her  little 
death-song,  "  Soul,  thou  hast  much  goods  laid  up  for 
many  years  ;  take  thine  ease,  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry." 
Too  assured  of  the  supremacy  gained  for  her  by  the 
self-sacrifice  of  many  generations,  she  grew  presump- 
tuous, keeping  careless  watch  over  her  household  ;  and 
by  her  laxity  she  drove  the  more  zealous  and  less 
logical  of  her  children  from  the  security  of  her  feeding- 
places  to  the  liberty  and  danger  of  new  pastures,  and 
the  less  zealous  and  more  logical  to  the  wilderness  where 
there  were  no  pastures  at  all. 

To  the  negligence  of  the  Church  of  England,  and  to 


220  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

the  indifference  on  the  one  hand  and  the  sectarianism 
on  the  other  engendered  by  it,  I  attribute  the  chief  blame 
for  the  East-ender's  unhappy  lot.  Had  the  Church 
been  true  to  her  mission,  she  never  would  have  allowed 
herself  to  be  weakened  by  lazy  acquiescence  or  violent 
disruption  ;  but,  in  order  to  offer  a  solid  phalanx  to  the 
common  enemy,  she  would  have  grappled  to  her  with 
hooks  of  steel  all  elements  of  good  of  whatsoever  kind. 
In  her  pride  of  purse  and  power  she  has  refused  to 
mother  her  own  children,  and  now  her  struggle  for  the 
merest  existence  has  changed  the  milk  of  her  human 
kindness  into  the  gall  of  bitterness. 

Indifference  and  sectarianism  !  It  is  the  indifference 
of  the  East-ender  that  makes  him  appear  ungrateful. 
One  of  the  commonest  remarks  of  friends  who  interest 
themselves  in  our  work  is,  "  How  very  grateful  the  people 
must  be  to  you  !  "  Must  they  ?  Those  who  live  in  their 
midst  could  tell  a  different  story.  I  knew  a  lady  who 
toiled  among  a  number  of  women  for  nine  years.  On 
her  retirement  these  women  made  a  collection,  and 
bought  her  a  two-and-sixpenny  work-box  !  That  is  to 
say,  they  valued  her  services  at  the  rate  of  threepence 
farthing  a  year. 

Another  worker  had  a  still  more  curious  experience. 
After  several  years  of  strenuous  labour,  he  resigned ; 
and  some  of  the  men  with  whom  he  had  been  closely 
associated  put  their  heads  together  and  resolved  to  give 
him  a  present.  To  this  end  they  decided  on  a  subscrip- 
tion of  three  shillings.  I  was  astonished  and  delighted. 
It  was  the  most  generous  thing  I  had  come  across 
during  my  East  End  experience.  I  began  to  blame  my- 
self for  over-hasty  judgment.  But  my  ardour  was  to 
receive  a  cold  douche.  When  I  inquired  what  the 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     22 1 

present  was  to  be,  I  got  this  amazing  answer — "Well, 
you  see,  we've  reckoned  it  up,  and  we  can  have  a  jolly 
day  for  three  shillings  a  head,  and  Mr.  Bliss  shall  go 
for  nothing ! " 

But  Mrs.  Heel's  notion  of  speeding  the  parting  guest 
was  still  more  original.  A  group  of  women  were  dis- 
cussing the  approaching  separation.  "  If  he's  got  to 
go,  he's  got  to  go,  and  there's  an  end  of  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Heel,  philosophically ;  "  but  wot  I  say  is,  that  I've  no- 
think  wotever  agin  'im,  and  if  he  'as  a  trifle  for  me  to 
remember  'im  by,  I  ain't  the  woman  to  refuse  it." 

Whence  the  indifference  that  betrays  itself  in  such 
ingratitude  ?  Well,  the  philanthropical  worker  in,  the 
East  End  is  looked  upon  merely  as  a  "  dispenser  of 
help,"  and,  in  the  East-ender's  vernacular,  "  help  "  means 
cash  or  its  equivalent.  One  has  no  emotions  of 
tenderness  towards  a  money-bag  ;  and  when  the  worker 
is  regarded  merely  as  a  channel  for  the  conveyance  of 
"  charity,"  he  must  not  expect  gratitude.  I  have  been 
summoned  to  the  bedside  of  many  a  sick  person  in 
Millwall ;  but  the  number  of  occasions  on  which  I  have 
been  summoned  for  the  purpose  of  giving  spiritual  help 
could  be  counted  on  the  ringers  of  one  hand.  The 
"  help  "  desired  has  invariably  been  beef-tea  and  brandy. 
In  face  even  of  such  facts  as  these,  however,  we  must  not 
be  hasty  in  our  judgment.  The  lot  of  our  brothers  and 
sisters  is  so  hard,  their  outlook  is  so  limited,  the  pressure 
of  mere  existence  is  so  exacting,  that  they  have  no  time 
to  think  of  anything  but  food.  And  if  we  workers 
represent  to  them  the  comfort  of  the  good  things  with 
which  in  the  Magnificat  we  are  told  that  God  shall  fill 
the  hungry,  we  need  not  be  unduly  concerned,  I  think, 
that  our  preaching  and  our  praying  fall  so  flat. 


222  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

For,  in  spite  of  the  ever-increasing  number  of  people 
who  seem  anxious  to  discredit  the  poverty  of  the  East 
End,  the  East  End  is  poor  with  a  poverty  which 
possesses  none  of  the  fascinating  glamour  of  the  trans- 
pontine melodrama  about  it,  but  is  brutally  naked  and 
repulsive ;  a  poverty  of  empty  stomachs  and  gnawing 
pain,  of  mortal  despair  daily  conquered  by  ever-living, 
ever-springing  hope. 

Let  the  following  epistles  speak  for  themselves.  They 
are  all  appeals  for  "help"  of  the  kind  we  have  been 
considering,  and  are  reproduced  word  for  word  and  letter 
for  letter.  The  first  is  from  Stella  :— 

"  plea  Sir  i  write  to  ask  you  if  you  could  help  me  a 
little  as  Mr  prince  as  been  ill  before  Christmas  but  it 
not  throue  drink  that  i  ask  for  Any  think  this  time  it 
illness  he  as  had  to  go  to  the  hospitale  and  he  as  got 
work  when  he  is  able  to  go  to  it  and  i  have  had  to  part 
with  Every  think  to  pay  rent  and  get  a  bite  for  the 
children  i  write  now  becous  i  have  not  a  bit  a  bread  to 
give  the  Children  Mr  Prince  as  gon  to  try  an  do  a  little 
today  Mrs.  PRINCE." 

Here  is  one  from  a  husband — a  great  rarity ;  but  I 
gather  that  the  wife  was  too  ill  to  do  the  dirty  work 
herself:— 

"  DEAR  SIR, 

riting  these  few  lines  to  you  to  let  you  know  that 
Mr.  Mountain  could  not  start  me  yesterday  because  he 
his  slack  so  he  took  my  name  and  Adress  Dear  Sir 
I  should  be  verry  much  Oblige  iff  you  could  give  my  wife 
one  or  two  tickets  for  some  food  we  have  not  got  any 
food  in  the  house  I  am  verry  Sorry  that  I  can  not 
come  my  self  because  I  am  cleaning  up  the  place  for 
my  Wife.  Good  by." 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     223 

Terror  of  the  landlord  bulks  largely  in  these  letters, 
as  the  following  examples  will  show  : — 

"  Mr.  Free  Mr  Blinker  as  start  this  morning  thank 
god  but  i  had  a  Letter  from  the  Land  Lord  to  say  if  not 
the  Weeks  rent  when  Collector  Call  to  day  between  3 
and  4  to  prevent  further  proceedings  but  i  cant  give 
him  Eny  think  till  Saturday  as  Mr.  Blinker  wont  get  it 
till  then  it  will  be  2  Week  on  Monday  due  but  what 
make  him  so  sharp  i  is  as  soon  as  he  Can  get  you  out  he 
does  the  place  up  and  put  1/6  moor  on  than  are  4/6 
down  now. 

pleas  Mr.  Free  are  they  to  Come  down  for  The  Soup 

Mrs.  BLINKER." 

"  pleas 

Mr  Free  i  am  sorry  to  have  to  ask  you  again 
Mr  Gropp  as  not  do  a  day  work  now  3  Weeks  to  morrow 
i  did  a  little  last  week  and  hope  to  do  a  little  this  week 
i  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  Could  lend  me  4/  till 
Saturday  for  the  Landlord  to  night  to  save  him  sending 
the  Brokers  in  i  dont  whant  to  go  to  the  Workhouse  if 
i  can  help  it  he  will  be  heare  about  eaight  to  night." 

When  sickness  creeps  in,  the  East-ender's  lot  is  sad 
indeed : 

"  To  The  Reaverant 

Mr  Free  please  could  you  oblige  me  with  a  little 
coal  or  milk  as  I  have  had  my  son  ill  for  a  fortnight 
with  dipferior  and  it  as  cost  me  a  Lot  for  fireing  and  milk 
having  to  fire  on.  Very  sorry  to  Trouble  you. 

Mrs.  WORCESTER." 

"  Dear  Sur  could  you  oblige  Mrs.  Stiver  With  a 
little  coles  as  i  have  got  my  husbent  Laid  up  this  Last 
Week  and  i  have  got  to  keep  too  fire  going  if  you  could 
i  shuld  Be  very  much  oblige  to  you  Mrs.  Stiver,  very 
sorry  to  trouble  you  Yours  to  oblige." 


224  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

The  East  End  mother  does  the  begging,  as  I  said  ; 
but  it  is  for  her  children,  not  for  herself,  she  pleads : 

"  Dear  Sur 

I  am  very  sorry  to  trouble  you  again  for  a  little 
help  as  my  husband  as  done  no  work  for  5  weeks  I 
cant  abar  to  .see  to  see  the  children  hungry  I  hope  I 
wont  hab  to  drouble  you  again  as  it  is  very  much 
against  me  to  asked  for  anything  but  I  am  forst  to. 

Mrs.  STREMSEN." 

"  pies  Mister  fee  chould  you  help  me  With  a  little 
has  Mister  hart  hant  din  no  Work  this  Week  and  i 
hant  got  no  fard  and  no  faring  for  my  little  shildren — 
i  ham  very  sorry  to  trouble  you  from  Mises  HART." 

Can  we  wonder  that  these  people  are  indifferent, 
when  the  wolf  is  howling  incessantly  at  the  door  ?  Is 
it  surprising  that  they  are  ready  to  be  all  things  to  all 
men,  that  they  may  by  all  means  get  something  ?  Can 
we  conscientiously  condemn  their  hypocritical  acceptance 
of  our  spiritual  ministrations  in  view  of  the  tickets  for 
grocery  that  are  to  follow  ? 

Nevertheless,  the  material  interpretation  of  that  little 
word  "  help  "  is  at  times  very  hard  to  bear.  There  was 
Happy  Clive.  At  ten  years  of  age  that  child  was  a 
confirmed  kleptomaniac.  When  everybody  had  given 
her  up  as  hopeless,  I  took  her  in  hand,  invoking  the 
combined  powers  of  kindness  and  firmness.  Every 
Tuesday  at  four  she  came  to  me,  and  I  asked  her  three 
questions  :  "  Have  you  lied  since  last  week  ?  "  "  Have 
you  stolen  anything  ?  "  "  Have  you  asked  God  to  keep 
you  truthful  and  honest  ?  "  More  often  than  not,  after 
denial  or  elaborate  equivocation,  she  had  to  acknowledge 
a  slip  or  two.  Then  followed  reasoning,  exhortation,  and 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     225 

prayer.  It  was  tedious  work,  but  I  struggled  on  ; 
and  I  believe  I  was  instrumental  in  saving  Happy  from 
a  House  of  Correction,  which  in  all  likelihood  would 
have  hardened  her  into  a  professional  criminal.  Well, 
one  day  Mrs.  Clive  met  my  wife  and  began  "  laying 
off"  about  the  sins  of  the  clergy  in  general,  and  of 
myself  in  particular. 

"  But,  really,"  Mrs.  Free  expostulated,  "  you  ought  to 
be  the  very  last  person  to  complain,  seeing  what  a  great 
deal  of  help  my  husband  has  given  your  little  girl." 

"  'Elp  ?  "  screeched  Mrs.  Clive.  "  Wot  'elp  ?  'E  ain't 
'elped  no  child  of  mine,  as  /  know  of." 

'  But,  surely,  you  remember  how  he  took  Happy  in 
hand  and  influenced  her  for  good,  and " 

"Q\\.,thet!"  cried  Mrs.  Clive,  with  unconcealed  relief; 
"  I  thought  as  you  meant  he  give  her  somethink." 

It  was  Mrs.  Crusty,  whose  peculiar  notions  on  matri- 
mony I  have  related  elsewhere,  who  left  for  a  distant 
parish  with  the  lofty  remark,  "  You  may  say  so.  I'm  glad 
enough  to  go.  Not  as  I've  got  anything  agin  Mr.  Free  ; 
but " — with  a  sage  wag  of  the  head—"  there  ain't  much 
to  be  got  out  of  *im." 

From  the  East-ender's  point  of  view,  the  parson  is  a 
creature  to  be  squeezed,  and  is  of  some  use  until  he  is 
squeezed  dry.  A  group  of  women  were  chatting  at  the 
corner  of  Cahir  Street  one  afternoon. 

"  Well,  and  what  are  you  good  folks  gossiping  about  ?  " 
said  I,  cheerily. 

A  sour-faced  stranger  answered,  with  evident  inten- 
tion— 

"I  was  telling  'em  wot  a  lot  of  'elp  our  church  gives 
us." 

Six  of  our  women  seceded  from  us  at  one  fell 

Q 


X 

226  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

swoop  ;  not  because  they  doubted  the  validity  of  our 
orders  or  the  reality  of  our  sacraments,  but  because,  by 
virtue  of  the  efforts  of  an  enterprising  lady  in  the 
neighbourhood,  they  could  get  tea,  once  a  week  at  least, 
for  nothing.  Mrs.  Boughton  was  exceedingly  frank  in 
the  matter.  "  Wy  did  I  leave  ?  "  said  she.  "  Wy,  for 
wot  I  could  get !  " 

Is  it  surprising  that  the  spiritual  functions  of  the 
clergy  are  lost  sight  of?  Thousands  of  East-enders 
claim  help  from  the  parson,  not  as  their  privilege,  but 
as  their  right.  Mrs.  Totteridge  is  a  particularly  good 
representative  of  her  class,  yet  she  sent  me  this  letter  : — 

"  I  think  it  very  hard  that  I  have  to  take  every  penny 
of  my  girl's  earnings  and  she  has  to  put  up  with  girls 
calling  her  rags  and  people  in  work  getting  relief  tickets 
and  when  I  ask  for  a  ticket  for  food  my  name  is  not 
sent  in  and  I  ought  to  get  it." 

Pauline  was  no  cadger ;  yet  one  day  I  caught  her 
slipping  into  the  free  dinners  intended  for  the  very 
poorest  children.  "  Hallo  ! "  said  I,  "  what  are  you 
doing  here  ?  Father  is  in  work,  isn't  he  ?  "  Pauline 
flushed  a  rosy  red,  but  she  put  a  bold,  not  to  say  brazen, 
face  on  the  matter.  "  The  dinners  is  here,  and  I  may  as 
well  have  'em,"  said  she,  with  a  defiant  thrust  of  her 
well-shaped  chin. 

Mrs.  Totteridge  and  Pauline  both  gave  expression  to 
the  same  sentiment,  namely,  that,  whether  in  want  or 
not,  they  were  perfectly  justified  in  getting  as  much  out 
of  the  parson  as  they  could. 

That  is  the  idea.  And  it  is  that  idea  which  utterly 
destroys  the  possibility  of  spiritual  work  of  any  real 
kind,  and  makes  the  East-ender  indifferent  to  the 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     227 

clergyman  except  in  so  far  as  he  can  fleece  him.  How 
well  I  remember  having  my  eyes  opened  to  this  un- 
pleasant fact ! 

It  was  in  the  days  of  my  first  curacy,  and  I  was,  I 
believe,  as  fastidious  as  could  be  wished.  Academic  to 
the  finger-tips,  I  regarded  with  ill-concealed  disdain 
everything  of  a  practical  nature.  I  was  obliged  to 
fulfil  many  distasteful  duties.  I  turned  up  my  nose  at 
them,  but  I  did  them.  My  taste  was  most  deeply 
offended  by  the  weekly  soup-kitchen.  The  smell 
positively  stung  me.  The  straggling  queue  of  unkempt 
humanity  filled  me  with  false  shame.  Yet  I  was  as 
convinced  as  could  be  that  no  one,  not  even  a  child, 
would  identify  me  with  such  vulgar  associations.  I  was 
to  suffer  a  rude  awakening.  One  day  I  was  called  to  a 
house  of  sickness,  and  was  waiting  for  admission  when  1 
overheard  the  following  conversation  between  two  little 
girls  seated  on  the  kerb  : — 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  is  ?  " 

"  No.     Who  ?  " 

"  Garn  !     You  do  know." 

"  I  don't.     Tell  us  ! " 

"  Wy,  that's  the  soup-ticket  man  !  " 

The  moral  is  plain  to  anyone  who  is  not  asphyxiated 
with  the  fumes  of  false  benevolence.  The  parson,  as 
philanthropist-in-chief,  is  "  the  soup-ticket  man,"  and  he 
has  himself  to  blame  if  he  is  little  else.  He  has  done 
his  best  to  spoil  the  East-ender,  in  whose  estimation  he 
is  half  knave,  half  fool.  "If  anything  can  be  got  out  of 
him,  so  much  the  better  ;  he  gets  enough  out  of  us." 
That  summarises  the  East-ender's  position.  The  sense 
that  he  is  being  made  capital  of  is  strong  within  him. 
"  There  goes  the  pennies  from  the  poor-box  !  "  shouted 

Q  2 


228  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

a  working-man,  as  a  clerical  friend  of  mine  sped  by  on 
his  bicycle.  That  was  the  notion — that  the  parson  ap- 
propriated funds  intended  for  the  poor,  and  sported  a 
bicycle  with  them. 

"  Look  at  it !  That's  where  our  money  goes  ! "  cried 
an  old  man  in  the  railway-train,  pointing  me  out  with 
the  finger  of  scorn — the  notion  being  that  this  gentle- 
man, and  all  other  gentlemen  of  the  same  class,  were 
taxed  to  keep  me  in  idleness. 

"  It's  a  very  funny  thing,"  observed  Mrs.  Kiddish  to 
the  lady  at  the  fried  fish  shop,  "  that  them  Frees  always 
go  for  a  'oliday  dreckly  after  that  there  flare-up  of 
theirs,  the  St.  George's  concert.  It's  a  shaime,  I  say,  for 
them  to  use  money  in  that  way,  instead  of  'elping  the 
pore,  as  they  oughter." 

Topsy,  who  was  buying  a  "  penn'orth  "  on  her  own 
account,  loyally  defended  us : — "  Shut  your  mouth  !  I 
wonder  how  many  times  Mr.  Free  has  given  you 
tickets.  And  you  don't  suppose  he  takes  the  church 
money,  do  you  ?  " 

"  'Ow  else  does  'e  live,  Miss  Spitfire  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  he  has  no  money  of  his  own  ? "  said 
Topsy,  with  a  toss  of  the  head. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  agreed  the  woman,  mock- 
ingly ;  "  'as  money  of  'is  own,  an'  lives  in  that  stingy 
little  shanty.  Wot  d'  you  take  me  for,  girl  ?  " 

Is  it  astonishing  that  the  East-ender  should  not  only 
be  indifferent  and  ungrateful  to  the  parson,  but  should 
actually  despise  him  ?  I  am  told  that,  once  upon  a 
time,  clergymen  were  treated  with  positive  respect,  that 
men  and  boys  would  lift  their  hats  to  them,  that  women 
and  girls  would  curtsey  to  them.  It  must  have  been 
long,  long  ago.  In  the  East  End,  the  "bobbing  and 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     229 

scraping  "  days  are  over  in  very  deed.  Little  Drayman, 
the  Petit  Chose,  gravely  informed  me,  one  day,  that  he 
had  written  to  his  father  to  this  effect :  "  Dear  Dad,  I 
see  Mr.  Free  to-day,  and  he  sends  his  best  respects  to 
you."  The  lad  had  no  thought  of  rudeness.  He  merely 
expressed,  in  perfectly  natural  fashion,  his  view  of 
the  relative  positions  of  the  labourer  and  the  clergy- 
man. 

I  remember  being  absorbed  in  Lectures  pour  Tous, 
when  Croly,  one  of  our  club-boys,  came  into  the  room. 
He  was  a  slip  of  fourteen,  just  fresh  from  school ;  and, 
catching  sight  of  the  title  of  the  periodical  I  was  read- 
ing, he  cried — 

"  'Ullo,  Froggy  !     Parley- voo  ?  " 

Croly 's  unconscious  impudence,  however,  paled  before 
the  studied  insolence  of  our  maid  Clara,  who,  when  my 
wife  threatened  to  report  her  conduct  to  the  "  master," 
burst  on  my  privacy  with  a  flourish  of  flounces  and  a 
tossing  of  tumbled  hair,  and  with  a  real  factory  screech 
cried — "  Master,  indeed  !  Call  that  my  master  ?  Good 
Lord  !  " 

There  was  a  lad  in  my  club  named  Witson,  a  solid, 
stolid,  hard-working  chap,  whose  life  was  unusually  dull 
and  grey  even  among  the  dull  and  grey  lives  of  his 
fellows.  One  night  I  called  him  aside  and,  in  the  inno- 
cence of  my  heart,  asked  him  to  stay  for  a  talk.  He  was 
rather  sheepish  and  reluctant  about  it,  at  first ;  but  I 
finally  got  him  into  a  chair,  with  a  real  cigar  between  his 
lips.  For  five  minutes  or  so  he  puffed  away  in  silence  ; 
then,  with  a  stretch  of  intense  satisfaction,  he  murmured 
— "  This  is  all  right,"— puff, puff,— "don't  mind  a  good  deal 
of  this  sort  o'  thing," — puff,  puff, — "knock  off  work 
early  just  now  ;  no  overtime,  you  know.  If  you  like," — 


230  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

he  dropped  his  voice  to  the  merest  whisper, — "  I'll  come 
in  pretty  frequent.  What  say  ?  " 

I  muttered  some  imbecility  or  other.  But  Witson  was 
not  a  fellow  to  be  put  off.  He  returned  to  the  charge 
again  and  again  during  the  evening.  It  was  late  when 
he  rose  to  go,  loud  in  praise  of  my  cigars,  and  very, 
very  happy.  I  was  dead  beat.  "  Good-night !  So-long  !  " 
he  said. 

I  was  closing  the  door  behind  him  with  a  sense  of 
supreme  satisfaction,  when  he  suddenly  reappeared.  "  I 
say  !  I  just  done  myself  fine  to-night  To-day's  Satur- 
day ;  well,  if  you  like,  I'll  come  again  Sunday.  What? 
And  look  'ere !  " — I  was  pushing-to  the  door,  but  he 
blocked  it  with  his  foot — "  Look  'ere,  Mr.  Free  !  If  you 
like,  I'll  come  every  night." 

Witson  was  no  ill-mannered  cadger ;  he  was  merely 
human.  He  had  no  suspicion  of  any  educational  or 
social  barriers.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
possibly  bore  me.  I  happened  to  be  a  man  possessed  of 
cigars  and  a  comfortable  room  to  smoke  them  in,  and 
he  was  a  lad  who  had  a  perfect  right  to  enjoy  himself 
at  my  expense.  That  was  all !  But  where  did  he,  and 
others  of  his  kidney,  get  the  idea  that  I  was  a  person  to 
be  traded  upon  ? 

From  the  spectacle  afforded  him,  I  should  say,  by 
the  rivalries  of  his  self-appointed  saviours.  Not  only 
has  there  been  an  utter  absence  of  anything  like  co- 
operation between  representatives  of  philanthropical 
effort  in  the  East  End,  but  they  have  actually  vied  with 
one  another  like  hawkers.  The  work  has  been  attempted 
by  the  incapable,  but  ingenuous,  rich  man  ;  it  has  been 
attempted  by  the  capable,  but  disingenuous,  poor  man  ; 
and  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two  has 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     231 

done  the  more  harm.  The  results,  however,  have  been 
identical  in  both  cases,  namely,  a  condition  of  unparalleled 
disorder.  Each  one,  acting  on  his  personal  responsibility, 
and  forming  a  little  system  of  his  own,  has  created  an 
artificial  centre  of  activity,  a  sort  of  whirlpool  of  agita- 
tion, which,  coming  in  contact  with  other  whirlpools, 
has  produced  utter  chaos.  Church  has  attacked  Chapel, 
Chapel  has  attacked  Church  ;  and  each  of  the  various 
nonconforming  bodies  has,  with  one  accord,  established 
itself  at  the  expense  of  every  other.  The  very  chil- 
dren have  taken  on  the  mutual  antagonism.  Referring 
to  a  dissenting  school-fellow,  a  little  girl  once  said  to  me, 
"  She  says  yours  is  a  rotten  church." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I  said  Jers  was  a  rottener." 

In  the  matter  of  East  End  philanthropy,  people  are 
under  the  impression  that  they  can  do  precisely  as  they 
like ;  whereas  their  only  excuse  for  doing  anything  at 
all  is  their  power,  and  not  merely  their  will,  to  help  the 
East-ender  to  a  better  life.  We  have  no  prescriptive 
right  to  interfere  with  him,  whether  he  is  benefited  or 
not,  whether  we  are  qualified  or  not.  Yet  if  one  of  our 
own  class  is  ever  so  slightly  interested  in  working- 
people,  or  if  he  is  hard  up  for  something  to  do,  or  if  he 
has  more  money  than  wit,  we  gravely  inform  him  that 
it  is  his  duty  to  go  and  work  in  the  East  End  !  In 
Heaven's  name,  why  ?  Could  anything  be  more  pre- 
posterous ?  Why  should  superfluity  of  money  or  time, 
or  scarcity  of  brains,  be  considered  sufficient  qualifica- 
tion for  a  calling  which  requires  special  training  of  head 
and  heart  such  as  is  demanded  by  no  other  profession  ? 
It  is  conceivable  that  there  are  persons  in  Berkeley 
Square  who  are  interested  in  Hampstead.  Yet  I  never 


232  SEVEN   YEARS'  HARD 

heard  of  sentimental  Belgravian  ladies,  whose  time 
hung  heavily,  driving  up  Haverstock  Hill  with  the 
purpose  of  improving  its  tone.  Haverstock  Hill  would 
object.  At  the  very  lowest  computation,  the  East  of 
London  is  as  important  as  the  North- West ;  and — which 
is  a  point  much  overlooked — the  East-ender  objects  to 
being  patronised  by  the  West-ender  quite  as  much  as 
the  dweller  in  the  North- West  would.  Unfortunately  for 
the  East-ender,  however,  he  has  no  means  of  expressing 
his  objection,  and,  indeed,  has  got  so  used  to  the  buns  of 
the  philanthropists  that  he  has  come  to  look  upon  them 
— the  philanthropists,  not  the  buns  :  the  buns  are  always 
toothsome — as  a  kind  of  disagreeable  necessity  which 
must  be  made  the  best  of.  So  Autolycus  floods  the 
market  with  his  worthless  wares  ;  and  the  market,  being 
otherwise  incapable,  smiles  hypocritically. 

The  direct  result  of  religious  and  philanthropical 
rivalry  is  bribery  in  its  grossest  forms.  Take  the  follow- 
ing as  an  example  of  the  kind  of  thing  that  is  going 
on  all  over  the  East  End  to-day.  The  Nonconformists 
"  get  hold  of"  a  lad  who  has  fallen  into  evil  ways.  The 
boy  is  induced  to  join  several  societies  connected  with 
the  chapel — club,  brigade,  Bible-class,  and  so  on ;  and  all 
goes  merrily  for  a  time.  Then  the  secretary  of  the  club, 
the  captain  of  the  brigade,  or  the  leader  of  the  Bible- 
class  happens  to  offend  him.  He  does  not  trouble  to 
quarrel — not  he  !  He  merely  says,  with  a  fine,  com- 
placent shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "  Very  well !  I'll  go  to 
church,  then."  And  to  church  he  goes.  In  three  months 
he  is  back  again,  church  having  hurt  his  feelings  ;  and 
the  Dissenters,  recognising  him  for  a  veritable  brand 
plucked  from  the  burning,  make  sure  of  him  for  ever  and 
ever  by  bribing  him  to  the  top  of  his  bent. 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     233 

Individualism  !  Sectarianism  !  Bribery !  What  have 
they  not  to  answer  for  ?  When  a  "  Christian  "  society 
give  veritable  pennies  to  the  children  of  another 
Christian  society  in  order  to  induce  them  to  "come 
over  "  ;  when  "  Christians  "  invade  a  parish,  and,  under 
the  guise  of  helping  the  helpless,  load  with  unmerited 
gifts  those  who  already  are  being  systematically  assisted ; 
when  inducements  are  offered  to  all  and  sundry  to 
come  and  make  a  profession  of  religion  which  can 
have  no  root  either  in  head  or  in  heart,  it  is  surely 
the  sheerest  hypocrisy  to  wonder  why  Christianity — the 
Christianity  of  Christ — does  not  make  more  headway. 

Nor  does  the  mischief  end  even  here.  The  divisions 
within  the  Church  of  England  itself  have  immensely 
aggravated  the  evil  case  of  the  East-ender.  Take  that 
arbitrary  classification  of  Churchmen  into  Protestant 
and  Catholic.  What  could  be  more  ridiculous  ?  Every 
Anglican  is  both  Protestant  and  Catholic  :  Protestant,  in 
so  far  as  he  protests  against  the  claims  and  superstitions 
of  the  Papal  See ;  Catholic,  inasmuch  as  he  holds  to 
primitive  doctrine  and  practice.  To  create  an  artificial 
cleavage  between  the  two  terms  is  to  invite  the  con- 
tempt of  thinking  men  and  the  distrust  of  the  unthink- 
ing. Yet  that  is  precisely  what  is  occurring  at  this 
moment  throughout  the  East  End.  Differences  respect- 
ing minor  matters  are  being  exalted  by  ignorant 
mischief-makers  into  serious  divergences  of  opinion. 
One  labels  himself  of  Paul,  another  of  Apollos  ;  the 
house  seems  to  be  divided  against  itself;  the  man  in, 
the  street  smiles ;  and  the  East-ender  makes  up  his 
philosophical  mind  to  get  all  he  can  out  of  everybody. 

The  root-evil  of  all  such  eccentricities  lies,  not  in  the 
sensational  character  of  certain  religious  services,  nor  in 


234  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

the  danger  of  the  promulgation  of  certain  religious 
doctrines,  but  in  the  irresponsible  individualism  which, 
recognising  no  authority,  claims  exemption  from  all 
law.  Men  and  women,  endowed  with  more  business 
capacity  than  spiritual  grace,  are  running  their  own 
little  "shows"  for  their  own  little  glory,  pathetically 
oblivious  of  the  scorn  of  the  working-man,  for  whose 
sake  they  are  supposed  to  be  laying  down  their  lives. 
To  the  man  who  has  the  eyes  to  see,  and  the  honesty  to 
speak  of,  things  as  they  are,  and  not  as  they  appear 
through  the  rose-coloured  spectacles  assumed  by  many 
of  us,  this  sort  of  thing  would  really  be  heart-breaking 
were  it  not  actually  side-splitting.  That  anyone,  un- 
cultured, ambitious,  poor,  and  therefore  particularly 
susceptible  to  the  glamour  of  success,  should  be  allowed 
to  assume  the  position  of  a  lord  or  lady  bountiful, 
smilingly  doling  out  relief  provided  by  the  "  charitable," 
is  surely  one  of  the  most  surprising  factors  of  our  modern 
life. 

I  recall  the  tactics  of  a  certain  Christian  body  which 
shall  be  nameless.  It  was  during  one  of  the  late  terrible 
winters  that  they  emerged  from  their  native  obscurity 
as  the  redeemers  of  the  East  End.  In  common  with 
other  Christian  denominations  they  had  been  entrusted 
with  the  distribution  of  funds  contributed  by  the  public  ; 
and  they  combined  business  with  religion  in  a  most 
original  manner.  "  Put  case,"  as  "  Caliban  "  would  say. 
I,  a  boozer  and  a  cadger,  hearing  that  something  is  to 
be  "  give  away  "  at  Salem  Chapel,  and  not  being  above 
asking  for  it,  wend  my  way  thither,  in  company  with 
some  hundreds  of  like-minded  brethren,  on  a  Wednesday 
evening.  My  name  is  taken  down,  and  I  am  told  to 
present  myself  on  the  following  Sunday  night  at  six 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     235 

o'clock.  In  addition,  I  am  cordially  invited  to  a 
"  Pleasant  Afternoon  for  Men  Only,"  from  four  to  six, 
when  tea  and  tobacco  will  be  provided  gratis.  Such  an 
arrangement  suits  me  admirably ;  and,  when  Sunday 
afternoon  comes,  I  enjoy  my  drink  and  my  smoke  in 
spite  of  the  religious  talk  of  the  gentleman  in  the  white 
tie.  At  six  o'clock,  the  tea  and  tobacco  having  come  to 
an  untimely  end,  I  receive  a  pressing  invitation  to  "  stay 
to  the  service  "  ;  and  as  I  have  not  forgotten  that  the 
distribution  of  tickets  is  still  to  come,  I  do  so.  A  hymn- 
book  is  put  in  my  hand,  and  I  sing  as  lustily  as  any  of 
them.  The  gentleman  in  the  white  tie  says,  "  Let  us 
pray,"  and  I  put  my  nose  in  my  cap.  When  the  gentle- 
man in  the  white  tie  begins  his  talk  again,  I  sit  as  patient 
as  a  donkey,  always  remembering  the  relief  tickets. 
Then  comes  another  hymn  ;  and  then,  at  last,  the 
thrilling  announcement  from  the  gentleman  in  the  white 
tie  that  he  is  now  about  to  give  out  the  tickets,  "  or, 
rather,  was,"  he  adds ;  "  for,  as  the  Gospel  is  now  to  be 
preached  by  means  of  a  series  of  tableaux  vivants>  I 
invite  my  friends  to  stay  to  that  service,  after  which  I 
will  distribute  the  tickets."  I  am  disappointed  ;  for  the 
evening  is  slipping  away,  and  Tom  and  Dick  are  waiting 
for  me  at  the  "  Bricklayers'  Arms."  A  pretty  time  I 
shall  get  of  it  if  I  return  empty-handed  !  But  it  can't 
be  helped.  Into  the  "  Gospel  by  tableaux  vivants  "  I  go, 
and  endure  a  third  spell  of  religious  talk.  For  another 
half-hour  I  sit  nearly  as  patient  as  a  donkey,  and  audibly 
grunt  with  satisfaction  when  the  lights  are  at  length 
turned  up  and  the  thing  is  over.  In  my  gratitude  I 
even  put  my  last  penny  in  the  plate.  Then  the  gentle- 
man in  the  white  tie  gives  out  the  tickets,  calling  each 
recipient  by  name.  There  are  about  three  hundred 


236  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

applicants,  only  thirty-five  tickets,  and  not  a  solitary 
one  for  me.  I  am  naturally  furious,  and,  remembering 
Tom  and  Dick,  am  preparing  to  give  the  gentleman  in 
the  white  tie  a  bit  of  my  mind,  when  he  raises  his  hand, 
silences  the  babel  of  voices,  and  says,  in  the  sincerest 
tone  imaginable,  "  I'm  sorry  that  any  should  be  disap- 
pointed, but  come  again  next  Sunday,  and  no  doubt 
you  will  be  more  fortunate.  Now  let  us  sing  the 
Doxology." 

One  plain  word  on  that  subtlest  of  all  forms  of  bribery 
— I  mean  flattery,  and  I  have  done  with  soup-ticket 
philanthropy.  To  flatter  the  East-ender  by  minimising 
his  vices  and  magnifying  his  virtues  is  a  sure  way  of 
becoming  popular  ;  and  there  are  those  who,  finding  in 
the  daily  offering  of  this  unwholesome  sacrifice  the  only 
chance  of  life,  use  it  unstintingly.  Such  workers  are 
too  smooth-tongued.  They  are  one  thing  to  the  faces 
of  the  people,  another  behind  their  backs.  Afraid  to 
rebuke  their  vices,  they  overrate  their  virtues,  and, 
knowing  that  popularity  will  secure  immunity  from 
most  of  the  penalties  of  living  among  an  alien  race,  they 
make  up  their  minds  to  be  popular  at  any  price.  They 
have  their  reward.  And  so  had  the  hypocrites  of  old. 

To  refrain  from  opposing  such  methods  of "  compel- 
ling them  to  come  in,"  with  all  its  concomitant  toadyism, 
vulgarity,  and  hypocrisy,  would  be  in  the  highest  degree 
disloyal  to  the  spirit  of  Christ ;  and,  until  some  common 
basis  of  action  can  be  found  which  shall  be  honest  as 
well  as  earnest,  and  which  shall  pay  more  regard  to  the 
elevation  of  the  working-man  than  to  the  exaltation  of 
any  particular  cult,  I  fear  the  redemption  of  the  East 
End  is  outside  the  range  of  practical  politics.  To  gild 
the  pill  with  bribery  or  flattery  is  to  court  and  ensure 


SOUP-TICKET  PHILANTHROPY     237 

failure.  When  the  gilt  has  been  scratched  off,  the  pill 
will  be  discarded.  The  East-ender,  no  less  than  his 
more  cultured  brother  of  the  West,  believes  little  or  not 
at  all  in  the  thing  he  can  get  for  nothing  ;  but  he  values 
the  thing  he  pays  for.  And  Christianity  will  never  be 
the  power  it  ought  to  be  in  the  East  End  until  the 
system  of  giving  everything  for  nothing  has  been  finally 
abandoned  as  unscientific  and  fruitless. 


CHAPTER  X 

CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE 

THE  reader  of  the  foregoing  pages  will  not  be  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  Christianity  does  not  "  count "  in  the 
East  End.  There  are  eminent  exceptions  to  the  rule,  but 
that  is  the  rule.  The  average  East-ender's  indifference 
to,  and  ignorance  of,  Christianity  and  all  that  appertains 
to  it  are  almost  beyond  belief.  In  my  early  days  at 
Millwall  it  was  an  impracticable  feat  to  secure  at  any 
religious  service  a  "  quorum,"  if  I  may  be  allowed  the 
expression.  Try  how  we  might,  we  could  not  succeed 
in  "gathering  together"  even  the  "two  or  three."  It 
would  be  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  heart-sinking 
that  would  seize  me  when,  on  arriving  at  our  temporary 
chapel  on  Sunday  mornings,  I  would  discover  half-a- 
dozen  tiny  children,  hand  in  hand,  waiting  for  the  doors 
to  open.  "  There's  our  congregation  ! "  I  would  say, 
not  without  bitterness.  It  seemed  to  me  so  strange 
and  terrible  that  Christianity  should  be  considered  no 
religion  for  strong  men  and  kind  women. 

In  view  of  religious  backwardness  or  shyness,  one  of 
my  evangelists  proposed  a  series  of  extremely  simple 
mission  services.  I  heartily  concurred  and  provided 
him  with  some  thousands  of  handbills.  With  these  he 


CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE         239 

called  personally  on  several  hundred  families,  from  most 
of  whom  he  obtained  a  definite  promise  to  come  to  his 
first  meeting.  The  good  man  was  new  to  the  East  End, 
and  was  full  of  hope  that  he  would  have  a  crowded 
house.  When  the  great  evening  arrived,  his  congrega- 
tion numbered  exactly  twelve  persons,  eight  of  whom 
were  regular  church-goers. 

Our  Window  Gardening  Society  caught  on  amazingly, 
and  enormous  quantities  of  seeds,  bulbs,  and  plants 
were  distributed  gratis  to  its  members.  In  the  third 
year  of  its  existence,  I  inaugurated  an  annual  service, 
which  thirty  stalwarts  entered  into  a  solemn  league 
and  covenant  to  support,  seeming  really  anxious  to 
show  their  appreciation  of  the  encouragement  given 
them  to  cultivate  flowers.  "  We  shall  have  thirty,  any- 
how," observed  my  wife,  brightly.  On  the  appointed 
day  we  got  two. 

This  appalling  irreligiousness  is  one  of  the  things  it 
takes  so  long  to  understand.  I  had  a  notion,  founded 
on  previous  experience,  that  a  well-known  man,  who  was 
both  earnest  and  unconventional,  might  draw.  So  I 
invited  the  Rev.  J.  L.  Lyne,  the  "  Llanthony  Monk,"  to 
come  and  stir  us  up.  At  that  very  time,  this  popular 
preacher  was  attracting  immense  crowds  of  men  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  at  St.  Sepulchre's,  Holborn ;  but, 
although  I  advertised  him  unstintingly,  a  mere  handful 
of  people  came  to  hear  him.  Millwall  declined  to  be 
drawn  even  by  his  shaven  pate  and  sandalled  feet. 

Apropos  of  Mr.  Lyne's  visit,  a  significant  story 
reached  me.  About  half-an-hour  before  the  advertised 
time  of  the  meeting,  one  of  my  choirmen  remarked  to 
his  brother — "  I  must  be  off,  Sam.  Father  Ignatius  is 
preaching  to-night.  There's  sure  to  be  a  fearful  crush." 


24o  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

"  Fearful  crush ! "  echoed  Sam.  "  Do  you  know 
Millwall,  Alf  ?  Why,  if  the  Queen  was  advertised  to  do 
a  skirt-dance,  there  wouldn't  be  fifty  people  to  see  her." 

Well  do  I  remember  the  preparations  I  made  for  the 
first  anniversary  of  the  dedication  of  St.  Cuthbert's.  I 
invited  several  clergymen  to  preach  ;  I  worked  the  choir 
up  to  tackle  a  special  anthem ;  I  advertised  our  pro- 
posed doings  on  huge  posters.  Dedication  day  arrived. 
It  was  a  magnificent  evening.  I  was  jubilant.  "The 
weather  won't  keep  people  away,"  said  I  to  myself ;  "  I 
positively  believe  we  shall  have  a  congregation."  When 
the  hour  of  service  struck,  there  was  not  a  solitary 
soul  in  church.  Everybody,  including  the  choir,  had 
scampered  off  to  see  a  procession  a  mile  away. 

Nor  were  we  Church  folk  peculiar  in  our  failure  to  get 
people  interested  in  Christianity.  At  one  time  a  deter- 
mined effort  was  made  by  the  Salvation  Army  to  attract 
a  crowd  in  the  West  Ferry  Road.  The  men  stood  in 
the  doorways,  smoking  their  pipes  with  unstudied 
indifference ;  the  women  foregathered  at  convenient 
corners,  nursing  their  babies  and  discussing  the  latest 
scandal.  A  long-legged  boy  swung  down  the  street, 
shouting,  "  Are  you  saved  ?  Come  to  Jesus  !  "  A  woman 
cried  out,  "  Wy,  'ere's  the  Army  now !  "  and  a  neighbour 
added,  with  a  shrill  squeal  that  was  intended  for  a  laugh, 
"  Well,  I'm  blest !  Let  'em  all  come !  " 

Women  are  generally  supposed  to  be  more  amenable 
to  Christian  teaching  than  men.  I  have  not  found 
them  so.  Men  may  be  harder  to  catch,  but  they  stick 
faster.  When  a  man  "  gets  religion,"  he  is  in  dead 
earnest  about  it.  Nothing  will  keep  him  away  from  it — 
wife,  children,  neighbours  ;  and  I  have  known  those 
whose  lives  have  been  made  a  horrible  burden  to  them 


CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE         241 

by  the  fleering  of  wife  and  children,  to  say  nothing  of 
neighbours.  Once  having  begun  the  thing,  however, 
the  man  sets  his  teeth  and  goes  through  with  it  to  the 
end ;  and  not  infrequently  it  is  a  very  bitter  end. 

Nor  is  persecution  the  only  foe  the  Christian  working- 
man  has  to  contend  with.  There  is  a  subtler  and  still  more 
dangerous  enemy,  namely,  kindness.  He  is  such  a  rara 
avis  that  he  is  apt  to  get  spoiled  and  give  himself  airs. 
In  the  old  gin-palace  days  his  very  sincerity  in  irreligion 
almost  compelled  respect ;  in  the  new  church-going  days 
there  is  about  him  a  concentrated  self-righteousness,  not 
to  say  smugness,  which  is  not  always  agreeable  to  con- 
template. The  fact  of  the  matter  is  that  the  shepherd's 
anxiety  to  draw  the  wandering  sheep  into  the  fold  is  so 
excessive  that  occasionally  he  oversteps  the  bounds  of 
decency,  and  succeeds,  not  only  in  saving  the  sheep,  but 
also  in  giving  the  animal  an  unwarrantable  opinion  of 
his  own  importance.  Even  so,  it  is  marvellous  how  such 
a  man,  when  his  conscience  or  his  heart  has  really  been 
touched,  will  in  good  time  come  to  himself ;  and  there 
is  no  better  type  of  manhood  in  England  than  that  of  the 
East  End  working-man  who  has  conscientiously  em- 
braced Christianity.  His  nerve,  his  dogged  determina- 
tion, his  good-humoured  tolerance,  his  serious  devotion 
to  duty,  are  admirable  beyond  words. 

With  the  woman  it  is  different.  Her  religious  re- 
sponsibilities are  so  easily  assumed  that  they  are  quite 
as  easily  discarded.  She  is  so  readily  converted  that 
her  conversion  may  prove  worthless.  Yet  she,  too, 
can  be  splendidly  heroical.  I  have  known  girls  scarce 
in  their  'teens  go  through  the  fire  of  persecution  without 
flinching.  The  married  Christian  woman  is  often  a 
martyr  of  no  mean  type.  Should  her  husband  object 

R 


242  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

to  religion — which  is  extremely  likely — the  moment  she 
puts  on  her  bonnet  to  go  to  church,  he  dons  his  hat  for 
the  public-house.  An  evening  of  beer-swilling  and  a 
night  of  violence  are  sure  to  follow.  So,  having  to 
choose  between  her  husband's  sobriety  and  peace,  and 
the  gratification  of  her  religious  instincts  and  war,  the 
woman  selects  the  line  of  least  resistance,  takes  her 
bonnet  off,  and  sits  down  to  await  her  lord's  pleasure. 

Mrs.  Brummell's  case  was  typical.  Married  to  a 
toper,  her  religious  inclinations  were  cruelly  dis- 
couraged. "  I  was  brought  up  to  love  God,"  she  said 
to  me  one  day,  "and  I  would  gladly  come  to  church 
if  I  could." 

"  And  why  can't  you  ? "  I  asked — not  without  sus- 
picion ;  for  I  seemed  to  have  heard  the  remark  before. 

Mrs.  Brummell's  answer  was  a  strange  one :  "  Well, 
the  only  night  on  which  he  stays  at  'ome  is  Sunday,  and 
that  he  does  because  he  thinks  I  want  to  go  to  church. 
I  dursn't  move  while  he  is  in  the  'ouse  ;  but  when  seven 
strikes,  and  he  knows  it  is  too  late,  out  he  slips,  and  I 
see  no  more  of  him  till  past  midnight." 

"  But  why  don't  you  go  after  he  has  left  ?  "  I  asked, 
with  unpardonable  innocence,  considering  my  long 
sojourn  in  the  East  End. 

"  Why  ?  "  She  slipped  up  her  sleeve,  and  showed  me 
her  bare  arm  bruised  black  and  yellow  in  four  places. 
"  That's  why." 

It  is  not  easy  to  understand  why  the  East  End 
working-man  should  allow  his  children  to  be  taught  the 
Christianity  which  he  repudiates.  Yet  he  does  so,  and 
is,  at  times,  not  a.little  proud  of  the  fact.  On  a  summer 
excursion  I  happened  to  be  travelling  with  the  father  of 
one  of  our  little  Sunday-school  girls.  The  pride  of  the 


CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE         243 

man  in  his  daughter's  devotion  to  religion  was  curious. 
Over  and  over  again  he  told  me  how  she  would  snuggle 
up  to  him  with,  "  I'm  going  to  church,  daddy.  Won't 
you  come?"  "Yes,  that's  my  little  gel!  That's  my 
Ida,  that  is !  "  he  kept  on  saying.  He  was  so  pleased 
and  proud  that  I  ventured  to  ask  him  whether  he  had 
ever  yielded  to  the  child's  persuasions  ;  and  at  that  he 
opened  his  eyes  very  wide.  "  Wot,  me  ?  Me  go  to 
church  ?  " — he  fairly  sniggered  at  the  notion  ;  "  O'  course 
not." 

While  some  parents  are  really  anxious  to  have  their 
children  brought  up  in  the  Christian  faith,  others  will 
not  oppose  teaching  which  "won't  do  'em  no  harm  even 
if  it  don't  do  }em  no  good."  One  of  my  girls  was  in 
service,  and  her  mistress — mirabile  dictu  ! — wished  her  to 
be  confirmed.  The  astonishing  fact  was  communicated 
to  the  mother. 

"  I  don't  know  as  that's  a  bad  thing  for  a  girl,"  she 
indulgently  observed,  when  she  had  succeeded  in  grasp- 
ing the  idea.  "  When  I  was  a  young  'un  I  was  done 
myself,  and  used  to  go  to  the  what-you-may-call-it 
reg'lar." 

"The  Holy  Communion.  Well,  why  don't  you  do 
so  now  ? "  asked  my  wife.  "  Example  is  better  than 
precept,  you  know." 

"  No,  no  !  It  ain't  in  my  line.  But  Polly's  of  age  to 
judge  for  'erself.  She  can  get  confirmed  if  she 
likes ;  and  I  sha'n't  say  a  single  word  against  it. 
There ! " 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  promise  of  the  child's  life 
is  unfulfilled,  and  that  the  most  appalling  ignorance  of 
things  religious  abounds  among  old  and  young  alike. 
That  little  or  nothing  is  known  of  the  Book  of  Common 

R  2 


244  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

Prayer,  goes  without  saying.  To  Mrs.  Typum  must  be 
awarded  the  palm  for,  perhaps,  the  most  extraordinary 
excuse  for  religious  slackness  ever  invented. 

"  You  see,  I  am  used  to  the  old  Prayer  Books,"  she 
said.  "  They  was  so  different  when  I  was  a  girl  to  what 
they  are  now.  But  if  you'd  let  me  have  a  look  at  one 
o'  them  new  ones,  so  I  might  get  used  to  the  alterations, 
per'aps  I  might  be  able  to  come  to  church  again,  after 
all  these  years." 

Ignorance  of  the  Prayer  Book  occasionally  produces 
some  quaint  results.  One  of  my  greatest  difficulties  is 
to  get  godparents  to  make  the  proper  responses  at 
baptisms.  Having  no  idea  of  the  meaning  of  the 
service,  they  are  prone  to  wander  from  the  point.  So  I 
have  provided  cards  on  which  the  answers  for  sponsors 
are  printed  in  unmistakable  capitals.  The  first  god- 
parent who  used  the  new  cards  was  a  stevedore,  a  rough 
giant  of  a  fellow,  who  evidently  felt  his  position  keenly, 
and  kept  one  eye  on  the  door.  By  dint,  however,  of  a 
friendly  smile  or  two,  I  managed  to  hold  him  in.  After 
a  while,  to  my  astonishment,  the  service  actually 
appeared  to  interest  him.  He  gazed  at  his  card  with 
an  intensity  which  was  most  gratifying,  and  once  he 
said  Amen  quite  loudly  and  heartily.  I  was  enchanted. 
Apart  from  the  rarity  of  godparents  of  any  kind,  and 
especially  of  godfathers,  it  is  most  unusual  for  a  sponsor 
to  make  a  response.  So  I  beamed  encouragingly  upon 
this  model  godfather,  and,  proceeding  to  the  questions, 
asked  him  whether,  in  the  name  of  his  godchild,  he 
renounced  the  devil  and  all  his  works.  To  this  he 
should  have  replied,  "  I  renounce  them  all."  But  he 
didn't.  With  knit  brows  and  heaving  breast,  he  stared 
at  the  print  held  tremblingly  not  three  inches  from  his 


CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE         245 

nose.  I  waited  during  a  tense  minute.  The  come-and- 
go  of  the  man's  breath  was  audible,  his  bristly  chin 
quivered  with  emotion,  the  sweat  stood  in  beads  upon 
his  forehead.  At  the  end  of  sixty  seconds  I  tried 
prompting.  "  I  renounce  them  all,"  I  whispered,  and 
repeated  the  sentence  again  and  again,  louder  and  still 
louder  ;  and  at  last  was  rewarded  by  seeing  the  model 
godfather  lift  a  pair  of  the  most  innocent  blue  eyes 
to  mine.  "  I  renounce  them  all,"  I  said  again,  waxing 
impatient.  The  burly  stevedore  nodded  with  every 
sign  of  satisfaction,  as  who  should  say,  "  Of  course  you 
do  "  ;  and  then,  girding  up  his  loins  for  a  supreme  effort, 
he  bellowed  at  the  top  of  his  voice  the  words  of  the 
rubric,  "  Then  shall  he  answer  and  say,"  and  swelled 
with  pride  at  his  extraordinary  performance. 

Nor  is  the  Bible  better  known  than  the  Prayer  Book. 
When  I  was  preparing  Cassandra  for  confirmation,  we 
happed  on  the  clause  in  the  Creed  about  Pontius  Pilate. 
"  Who  was  he  ?  "  I  asked.  Cassandra's  answer  was 
promptness  itself, — "  God  ! " 

Scarcely  less  astonishing  was  Jenny  Kilsby's  dis- 
covery. Jenny  was  anxious  to  be  a  Sunday  School 
teacher  ;  and,  in  order  to  ascertain  how  she  was  likely 
to  handle  a  subject  in  class,  I  lent  her  a  book,  and  bade 
her  to  prepare  the  Parable  of  the  Unmerciful  Servant. 
The  lesson  was  all  about  forgiveness ;  and  a  warning 
story  was  added  of  an  incendiary  who,  in  revenge  for  a 
supposed  insult,  set  fire  to  a  neighbour's  dwelling.  In 
due  course  Jenny  appeared  for  examination,  all  import- 
ance and  nervousness.  "Well,  have  you  thoroughly 
mastered  the  lesson  ?  "  I  inquired. 

Jenny  assured  me  that  she  had. 

"  Good  !     Now,  what  is  the  leading  idea  in  it  ?  " 


246  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

"  Oh  !  Just  for  nastiness,"  said  Jenny,  with  a  flash  of 
unspeakable  scorn,  "  that  old  man  went  and  set  a  pore 
feller's  'ouse  afire." 

"  Old  man  !     What  old  man  ?  " 

"  Why,  Peter  !  " 

That  ignorance  both  of  Bible  and  Prayer  Book  should 
abound  is,  perhaps,  not  surprising  in  view  of  the  limited 
opportunities  of  the  East-ender.  But  it  will  scarcely 
be  believed,  perhaps,  that  there  are  middle-aged  people 
in  the  East  End  who  do  not  know  the  Lord's  Prayer. 
Mrs.  Baccle  was  dying,  and  I  was  summoned  to  her 
bedside.  Her  mind  was  perfectly  clear  ;  and  I  was  able 
to  read  with  her  and  pray  with  her.  She  caught  with 
avidity  at  the  closing  supplication.  "  Ah  !  that's  an  old 
prayer,  that  is ;  I  used  to  say  that  when  I  was  a  little 
gal, — '  Our  Father,  'chart  in  'eaven, — 'chart  in  'eaven — ' ' 
I  prompted  the  poor  soul  pretty  freely,  but  she  could 
get  no  further. 

Mrs.  Grapestone,  who  had  been  ill  for  a  long  time, 
collapsed  suddenly  at  the  end.  There  was  no  time  to 
send  for  me.  A  thoughtful  neighbour  suggested  that 
somebody  should  say  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  a  small 
boy  was  grabbed  out  of  the  street  and  hurried  into  the 
sick-room. 

"Tommy,  say  the  Lord's  Prayer,  there's  a  good 
boy ! " 

"  Don't  know  it,"  said  Tommy. 

"Arst  him  if  he  knows  'Our  Father,'"  said  the 
thoughtful  neighbour. 

"  Father's  at  work,"  said  Tommy,  with  conscious 
pride. 

There  are  two,  and  only  two,  points  wherein  the  East- 
ender  voluntarily  comes  in  contact  with  the  religion  ot 


CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE         247 

his  forefathers  ;  and  even  there,  it  must  be  confessed  his 
(or,  rather,  her)  adherence  is  more  of  a  superstitious 
than  of  a  strictly  religious  type.  I  refer  to  christenings 
and  churchings.  Every  new  addition  to  the  family  must 
be  christened  ;  otherwise,  calamity  will  befall  it !  The 
wise  regulation  of  the  Church  of  England  respecting 
godparents  is  either  totally  neglected  or  else  fulfilled 
in  a  fashion  which  would  be  profane  were  it  not  so 
innocently  ludicrous,  as  the  instance  quoted  above  goes 
to  show.  With  regard  to  churchings,  no  self-respecting 
East  End  mother  would  dream  of  coming  out  for  the 
first  time  after  the  birth  of  her  child  for  any  other 
reason  than  "  to  go  to  church."  She  may  never  see  the 
inside  of  the  building  at  any  other  time  ;  she  may  be  a 
rank  Dissenter  ;  indeed,  her  morals  may  be  as  shady  as 
her  manners  are  seductive.  These  things  make  no  sort 
of  difference.  Churched  she  must  be,  and  churched  she 
is ;  and  when,  kneeling  humbly  at  the  altar,  she  drops 
her  penny  into  the  little  white  bag,  she  is  ready  to 
depart  in  peace  until  the  next  baby  is  born. 

The  men  laugh  at  their  wives,  and  stoutly  refuse  to 
be  parties  to  such  superstitious  practices,  but  for  the 
most  part  they  are  not  displeased.  Some  day — who 
knows  ? — when  the  revival  of  Christianity  comes,  these 
remnants  of  a  forgotten  past  may  be  the  nucleus  of  a 
great  uprising  of  spiritual  fervour. 

It  is  strange,  indeed,  to  reflect  that  women  who  are 
most  punctilious  with  regard  to  their  children's  baptism, 
not  only  neglect  but  are  fiercely  antagonistic  to  their 
confirmation.  It  would  be  impossible  to  exaggerate  the 
difficulty  I  used  to  experience  in  getting  my  young 
people  confirmed.  What  with  the  opposition  of  the 
parents  and  the  laxity  of  the  children  themselves,  I 


248  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

used  to  be  well-nigh  distracted.  The  omnibus  destined 
to  convey  the  candidates  to  the  church  was  drawn  up 
close  to  the  kerb ;  yet  the  task  of  running  the  gauntlet 
across  the  narrow  strip  of  pavement  was  almost  too 
much  for  all,  and  actually  more  than  some  could  bear, 
so  that  flight  of  the  indecorous  kind  at  the  last  moment 
was  not  unknown.  When,  at  length,  the  bolder  spirits 
plucked  up  courage  to  face  the  music,  they  were  greeted 
with  cheerful  remarks,  punctuated  with  roars  of  laughter, 
from  their  friends  of  all  ages.  As  thus  : — "  Wy,  that's 
Rags-an'-tatters,  that  is  !  There's  a  picture  for  yer !  .  . 
O  my !  ain't  'e  a  swell !  Look  at  'is  trousiz !  .  .  .  I've 
a  jolly  good  mind  to  be  conferred  myself." 

The  East-ender's  view  of  the  Church  of  England  is 
extremely  limited  and  one-sided.  His  conception  of 
her  functions  is  entirely  erroneous  ;  of  her  ideals  and 
practical  possibilities  he  has  no  conception  whatever. 
In  his  opinion  the  Church  is  financed  by  the  capitalist 
to  teach  the  poor  contentment.  Therefore  he  is  not 
enamoured  of  the  clergyman,  whom  he  regards  as  the 
slave  of  an  obsolete  system  tottering  to  its  grave,  and 
only  kept  on  its  shaky  legs  by  mean  old  women  and 
ignorant  children.  The  parson  stands  to  him  for  the 
conservative  selfishness  of  the  rich  and  privileged,  for 
the  tyranny  of  those  inexorable  powers  which  have  com- 
bined to  keep  him  tied  hand  and  foot  to  that  station  of 
life  to  which  a  cruel  destiny  has  called  him. 

Nor  has  he  any  better  opinion  of  Dissent.  He  abhors 
its  respectability  and  its  sentimentality.  If  he  be  honest, 
he  spurns  its  bribes  ;  if  he  be  dishonest,  he  accepts  them 
with  mental  reservations.  Dissent  strikes  him  as  an 
attempt  to  silence  the  divine  discontent  within  him  with 
sensational  claptrap  and  halfpenny  buns. 


CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE         249 

His  Sunday  newspaper  backs  him  up  in'his  scepticism. 
He  is  not  yet  sufficiently  well  educated  to  think  for 
himself;  nor  does  he  understand  that  even  a  Sunday 
newspaper  may  lie  ;  but  he  is  only  too  ready  to  believe 
that  every  new  thing  is  as  likely  to  be  true  as  that  every 
old  thing  is  likely  to  be  false. 

His  doubt  is  deepened,  as  I  have  already  intimated, 
by  the  amateurish  efforts  of  the  inefficient  to  redeem 
him.  He  laughs  in  his  sleeve  at  their  fussiness  and 
ignorance.  They  amuse  him  in  the  same  way  as  the 
antics  of  some  lively  little  animal  might  do ;  otherwise 
they  affect  him  neither  one  way  nor  the  other.  The  net 
result  of  our  almost  superhuman  efforts  to  draw  the 
East-ender  into  the  fold  is  that  he  treats  the  matter  as 
a  joke  and  declines  to  be  drawn.  He  has  discovered, 
as  I  said,  that  the  gilded  pill  is  still  a  pill ;  that  we  have 
tempted  him  by  a  pleasant  outside  merely  in  order  to 
get  him  to  swallow  without  grimace  the  nauseous  inside. 
Naturally,  he  resents  that  kind  of  thing,  and  contempt 
of  religion  is  the  result. 

Moreover,  Christianity,  as  we  understand  it  to-day, 
is  a  new  thing  to  him.  The  up-to-date  parson,  hard- 
working, genial,  hail-fellow-well-met,  fatherly,  steeped  in 
the  principles  of  Socialism,  full  of  faith  in  the  religion 
he  professes,  is  a  new  and  somewhat  disturbing  element. 
He  fails  to  understand  him.  History,  tradition,  the 
unwritten  law,  have  all  taught  him  to  expect  a  clergy- 
man to  be  of  a  certain  type  ;  when  history,  tradition,  and 
the  law  are  contradicted  in  the  apparently  worldly- 
minded  ecclesiastic,  who  takes  life  cheerfully,  yet  is  fore- 
most in  helping  lame  dogs  over  stiles,  the  East-ender  is 
astonished  but  not  convinced,  and  will  go  no  farther  than 
to  assure  you  that  he  is  absolutely  free  from  prejudices. 


250  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

"  But  why  don't  you  come  to  church  ? "  Picton  was 
once  asked  by  a  lady  visitor. 

"  Well,  I  can't  quite  say,"  was  the  puzzled  answer  ; 
"  but " — with  a  luminous  flash — "  I  can  assure  you,  miss, 
that  I've  got  nothing  agin  Mr.  Free,  and  I've  got 
nothing  agin  you,  and  I've  got  nothing  agin  none  of 
you." 

Even  when  the  East-ender  is  inclined  to  believe,  as 
he  sometimes  is,  that  the  parson  is  real  in  his  desire  to 
do  him  good,  it  is  as  hard  as  ever  for  him  to  credit  him 
with  reality  in  other  directions.  When,  for  instance,  he 
hears  Bible  stories,  which  are  stories  in  more  senses  than 
one,  solemnly  read  at  the  lectern  or  quoted  in  the  pulpit 
as  facts,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  is  doubtful  of  the 
parson's  sincerity.  Or,  again,  when  he  reads  in  the 
public  prints  letters  from  clergymen  denying  the  doc- 
trines contained  in  the  Creeds,  and  at  the  same  time  is 
aware  that  these  unbelieving  gentlemen  are  legally 
bound  to  recite  those  Creeds  regularly  Sunday  by 
Sunday,  his  belief  in  the  clergy  and  in  the  Church 
which  supports  them  is  not  strengthened. 

Only  one  East-ender  in  a  hundred  attends  any  place 
of  worship,  we  are  told.  The  church-  or  chapel-goer  is 
looked  upon  as  a  crank  or  a  hypocrite.  Well  for  him  if 
he  escapes  with  nothing  worse  than  a  suspicion  of  eccen- 
tricity. He  is  much  more  likely,  however,  to  be  charged 
with  downright  insincerity.  "  To  go  to  church  for  what 
you  can  get "  is  regarded,  and  rightly,  as  the  sure  mark 
of  the  beast.  Unfortunately,  the  majority  of  East- 
enders  can  conceive  of  no  other  motive  for  a  profession 
of  religion.  Consequently,  all  church-goers,  good,  bad, 
and  indifferent,  are  involved  in  a  common  denunciation. 
As  they  walk  down  their  street  or  court,  they  are  greeted 


CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE          251 

with  such  pleasantries  as  "  There  goes  the  religious 
man  !  "  "  There  goes  the  Christian  woman  !  "  "  How 
much  do  they  pay  you  for  doing  it  ?  "  "  Church  to-day, 
drunk  to-morrow  !  "  and  so  on. 

Sad  to  relate,  the  notion  that  one  is  religious  because 
it  pays  is  not  altogether  without  foundation  in  fact.  The 
harvest  thanksgiving,  for  example,  is  the  only  service 
which  attracts  to  any  appreciable  degree  ;  and  the  distri- 
bution of  the  fruit  and  vegetables  with  which  the  church 
is  decorated  on  such  an  occasion  has  much  more  to  do 
with  its  popularity  than  most  of  us  would  care  to 
acknowledge. 

Or  again.  Shopan  was  so  regular  in  his  choir  attend- 
ances that  I  congratulated  his  mother  on  the  fact. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mrs.  Shopan,  with  a  little  flutter  of 
maternal  pride  ;  "  that  boy  never  stays  away  if  I  knows 
it.  It's  for  his  good  to  stick  to  his  choir  and  his  church." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  I,  warmly, 
"  and  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  there  were  more  mothers 
who  took  that  view  of  religion." 

"  They  would  save  their  sons  many  a  pair  of  trousers," 
cried  the  good  lady,  triumphantly,  "  that  they  would  ! 
With  the  money  that  boy  gets  from  his  choir,  he  hasn't 
cost  me  a  penny  for  clothes  for  two  whole  years." 

Mrs.  Shopan  was  pretty  commercial,  but  Gyp  was 
worse.  This  disreputable  character  was  calling  on  me 
one  day  for  something  or  other,  when  I  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity of  reprimanding  him  on  his  dissolute  habits,  and 
especially  for  boasting,  as  he  frequently  did,  of  having 
been  convicted  of  drunkenness  no  less  than  thirty-seven 
times.  "  Like  the  rest  of  us,  you  will  have  to  die  some 
day,"  I  said  severely.  "  What  would  you  do  if  you  were 
to  die  to-night  ?  " 


252  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

"  What  Bradlaugh  did,"  he  hiccoughed. 

11  And  that  ?  " 

"  Bradlaugh  said,  *  Loramercy  on  my  soul ! '  That's 
wot  I'd  say — *  Loramercy  on  my  soul ! '  And  mind  you, 
mister,  if  I  said  it  with  the  last  bit  of  bref  in  my  body, 
it  'd  be  all  right.  I  should  be  as  safe  as  the  Bank  of 
England." 

"What!"  I  cried,  "you  think  you  would  get  to 
heaven  by  crying  for  mercy  at  the  last  moment  ?  " 

"  That's  my  belief,"  said  Gyp,  making  a  compliment- 
ary duck  of  the  head  in  my  direction,  and  nearly  over- 
balancing himself, — "  my  firm  belief,  per-wided  I  'ad  a 
reverend  shentleman  to  'elp  me." 

It  is  all  to  the  credit  of  the  honest  East-ender  that  he 
despises  such  hollow  mockeries  and  will  have  none  of 
them.  But,  unfortunately,  he  confounds  the  good  with 
the  bad,  and  resolutely  turns  his  back  on  all  profession 
of  Christianity  whatsoever.  I  was  in  Millwall  a  year 
and  a  half  before  a  man  came  to  my  services.  He  was 
a  genial  little  chap  with  a  cast-iron  smile.  He  came,  he 
saw,  was  not  conquered,  and  went  away  never  to  return. 
Spankiron  would  bring  his  wife  as  far  as  the  church 
door,  and  then  fly  into  the  darkness  like  one  possessed. 
Many  a  man  has  confessed  to  me  that  "  he  would  like 
to  go  in,  but  dursn't "  ;  and  I  have  known  young  fellows 
hang  about  outside  during  the  whole  of  the  time  of 
service,  listening  to  the  music,  but  not  having  the 
courage  to  enter.  In  summer  it  is  a  common  sight  to 
see  groups  of  people  in  Cahir  Street,  on  which  St. 
Cuthbert's  abuts,  enjoying  the  preaching  and  singing, 
both  of  which  can  be  heard  distinctly  through  the  open 
windows  ;  but  the  extreme  probability  is  that  not  one 
of  those  persons  has  ever  entered  the  church,  save  for  a 


CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE         253 

churching  or  a  baptism,  and  that  nothing  short  of  a 
second  Deluge  would  induce  them  to  do  so — and  then 
they  would  climb  on  to  the  roof!  Not  until  the  fourth 
year  of  my  work  in  the  East  End  was  I  asked  to 
give  the  Holy  Communion  to  a  sick  person  ;  and  even 
then  there  was  some  doubt  about  the  bond  fides  of  the 
astounding  request.  I  am  confining  myself  to  the  strict 
truth  when  I  say  that,  in  my  experience,  not  one 
summons  to  the  sick  and  dying  out  of  a  thousand  has 
had  a  higher  object  than  relief  tickets. 

Facts  like  these  speak  for  themselves.  Christianity  is 
discredited  in  the  East  End.  The  people  will  have 
none  of  it.  Ministers  of  all  denominations  are  regarded 
with  suspicion  and  distrust.  They  are  a  class,  and  they 
represent  all  the  abuses  of  class  privilege,  from  tub- 
thumping  to  auricular  confession.  That  feeling  of 
class  has  raised  barriers  where  none  need  have  existed  ; 
it  has  precluded  the  possibility  of  honest  and  straight- 
forward discussion  ;  it  has  created  a  terror  of  things 
religious,  which  no  subsequent  explanations  have  been 
able  to  allay.  From  the  tub  to  the  confessional,  I  say. 
It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  either  method  has 
succeeded  in  the  East  End.  The  man  who  wears  out 
his  wit  and  his  voice  in  shrieking  salvation  to  an  amused 
but  otherwise  unedified  people  is  regarded  with  as  deep 
distrust  as  the  coped  and  mitred  bishop.  He  may 
season  his  preaching  with  genuine  slang ;  he  may  con- 
descend to  the  most  vulgar  ostentation  ;  he  may  try  to 
blind  his  audience  with  a  liberal  supply  of  gold-dust. 
All,  all  in  vain.  As  for  the  confessional,  I  have  in  my 
mind  an  East  End  vicar  who  drove  the  boys  and  girls  of 
his  parish  thither  like  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep.  What 
was  the  result  ?  As  soon  as  his  personal  tyranny  was 


254  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

withdrawn,  most  of  those  young  people  turned  their 
backs  upon  Christianity  for  good  and  all.  A  young 
married  woman,  who  in  her  single  days  had  attended 
this  clergyman's  church,  complained  to  me  of  the  de- 
moralising effect  of  auricular  confession.  Her  words 
were  :  "  Evils  were  suggested  to  me  that  I  had  never 
dreamed  of."  That  is  so.  The  confessional  is  an  insult 
to  the  nobility  of  our  human  nature,  relegating  us  to 
the  company  of  the  swine.  Its  advocates  are  not  con- 
fined to  the  ranks  of  the  clergy.  There  are  lay  persons 
whose  devotion  in  this  regard  is  worthy  of  a  better 
cause,  women  or,  less  frequently,  men  of  unclean  mind. 
Such  persons  incline  to  dwell  on  the  carnal  side  of  things, 
protesting  that  they  love,  even  passionately  love,  boys 
and  girls ;  and  in  the  mirrds  of  the  children  who  are  so 
unfortunate  as  to  come  under  their  influence,  they 
succeed  in  stirring  up  all  the  dormant  dirt  in  hiding 
there,  and  create  a  loathing  for  the  very  name  of 
religion  which  bears  its  bitter  fruit  in  incurable  antagon- 
ism to  Christianity. 

One  of  the  flock  of  old  Cricklethorpe  was  a  woman 
whose  husband  had  an  undying  hatred  of  religion  in 
any  form.  Cricklethorpe,  being  a  man  of  many  excel- 
lent parts  and  very  wide  awake  in  matters  clerical,  used 
to  confine  his  pastoral  visits  to  hours  when  the  husband 
was  not  in  evidence.  A  day  came  when  the  poor 
woman  lay  a-dying,  and  sent  post-haste  for  her  con- 
fessor, who  arrived  in  due  course,  and  was  in  the  act  of 
administering  the  last  rites  when  the  husband  appeared. 
He  would  not  go  into  the  room,  however,  but  tramped 
the  pavement  in  front  of  the  house  in  exceeding  wrath. 
When  the  parson  came  out,  he  sprang  at  him  like  a  tiger. 
Two  men  held  him  back.  A  crowd  quickly  gathered. 


CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE         255 

"  Have  you  done  it  ?  "  shrieked  the  husband,  struggling 
to  free  himself. 

"  I  have,"  answered  Cricklethorpe,  firmly. 

"  Lemme  get  at  'im  !  Lemme  get  at  'im,  I  say  !  I'll 
teach  him  to  go  worryin'  my  missus,  I  will." 

At  the  word  he  broke  away,  and  bore  down  upon  the 
astonished  clergyman  like  a  fury.  But  the  little  man 
was  equal  to  the  occasion.  "  Stop ! "  he  cried,  authorita- 
tively. 

The  fellow  halted  in  sheer  amazement.  "  Well,  what 
now  ?  "  he  said. 

The  little  man  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and 
observed  with  the  utmost  composure — 

"If  you  dare  to  totch  me  with  so  motch  as  a  lee  tie 
fingare,  I  tear  your  goots  out." 

The  story  teaches  a  plain  lesson  to  all  who  are  willing 
to  learn. 

Yet  the  East  End  is  not  without  belief  of  a  kind. 
Glowers,  my  odd-job  man,  put  his  own  position  very 
plainly,  unconsciously,  as  I  think,  representing  that 
of  a  vast  number  of  East  End  working-men  :  "  No,  I 
don't  go  to  church  ;  never  did,  and  never  will.  To  my 
mind,  churches,  chapels,  and  parsons  ain't  no  class. 
They're  always  squabblin'  ;  and  if  a  feller  has  anythin' 
to  do  with  'em,  he  gets  to  squabblin'  too,  and  turns  out 
a  jolly  sight  wuss  than  he  was  before.  But " — he  lifted 
his  dripping  paint-brush  to  emphasise  his  remark — "  I 
don't  deny  as  there  ain't  a  Human  Been  somewheres 
wot's  a  lot  bigger  than  wot  I  am." 

Many  men,  however,  are  not  satisfied  with  the  some- 
what indefinite  belief  of  Glowers  and  his  kind.  They 
want  facts,  and  facts  they  will  have.  My  appearance 
in  an  omnibus  or  a  tram-car  has  often  been  the 


256  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

signal  for  a  fire  of  cross-questions  as  to  "  Who  was 
Cain's  wife  ?  "  "  Who  made  the  devil  ?  "  and  so  on.  A 
small,  blue-eyed  chap  on  the  knifeboard  of  the  local 
'bus  once  gave  me  a  poser.  "  Who  founded  the  world  ?  " 
he  asked,  apparently  addressing  the  universe. 

"  God,"  I  Answered,  promptly. 

"  Right,  mister ! "  agreed  the  little  man,  nodding  his 
grey  head  like  a  knowing  bird ;  "  but  who  founded 
Him?* 

I  confessed  my  ignorance,  adding  in  self-defence  that 
nobody  knew. 

"  Oh,  nobody  knows,  eh  ?  "  he  said,  sarcastically,  as  he 
screwed  up  one  blue  eye  and  squinted  at  me  sideways 
with  a  suggestion  of  mingled  contempt  and  pity.  "  Well, 
I  know — and  I'll  tell  you.  'E  growed  :  that's  wot  'E 
did."  The  little  man  turned  his  blue  eyes  heavenward 
in  a  way  that  was  infinitely  solemn.  "  'E  growed  like  a 
lily,  like  a  lily  o'  the  field." 

Occasionally  the  dormant  belief  of  the  East-ender  will 
manifest  itself  in  a  somewhat  surprising  fashion.  One 
Sunday  evening  I  was  preaching  in  the  West  Ferry 
Road,  when  a  stranger  stopped.  He  listened  atten- 
tively for  a  time,  then  suddenly  shouted  out  that  I  was 
a  humbug  for  teaching  the  people  to  believe  in  a  God. 
I  was  in  the  act  of  arraying  a  solid  phalanx  of  incontro- 
vertible arguments  for  the  discomfiture  of  my  adversary, 
when  the  matter  was  roughly  taken  out  of  my  hands  by 
the  bystanders,  who,  to  my  knowledge,  never  by  any 
chance  made  a  profession  of  religion. 

"  Mr.  Free's  quite  right,"  they  cried,  savagely.  "  There 
is  a  God,  and  we  believe  in  'Im  too.  You  shut  up ! " 

That  was  one  of  my  great  moments.  All  the  stress 
and  strain,  the  disillusions  and  the  disappointments,  the 


CHRISTIANITY  A  FAILURE         257 

heart-breaking  failures  and  the  flimsy  successes,  sud- 
denly assumed  their  lawful  place.  It  was  a  wonderful 
revelation.  How  these  brothers  and  sisters  of  ours  are 
hampered  by  the  sheer  inertia  of  their  lives  ;  how  their 
ears  are  stopped,  their  eyes  darkened  ;  yet  how,  in  spite 
of  everything,  they  are  seeking  God,  if  haply  they  may 
find  Him — in  a  flash  it  all  became  clear  to  me.  And 
then,  more  wonderful  still,  I  knew  what  my  business 
was. 


EPILOGUE 

"  I  HAVE  read  your  book,"  remarked  My  Candid 
Friend. 

"  How  do  you  like  it  ?  "  said  I. 

"  As  your  friend,  my  duty  is  to  tell  you,  not  how  I 
like  it,  but  how  I  dislike  it." 

I  nodded  resignedly,  struck  a  match,  and  lighted  a 
cigar  (five  a  shilling). 

"  Pro — -ceed,"  I  said,  chopping  the  word  in  half,  and 
taking  three  deep  pulls  and  two  shallow  ones  at  my  cigar. 

"There  are  things  in  your  book  enough  to  try  the 
patience  of  forty  Jobs  rolled  into  one,"  declared  My 
Candid  Friend,  repudiating  the  cigar-case  I  insinuat- 
ingly pushed  towards  him. 

"  Well !  well ! "  said  I,  for  want  of  something  better 
to  say. 

"Your  book  is  misinformed,  sweeping,  censorious, 
revolutionary " 

"  Stop  !  stop ! "  I  cried,  clapping  my  hands  to  my 
ears.  "  Chapter  and  verse,  for  mercy's  sweet  sake  ! " 

"  You  shall  have  them.  To  take  the  head  and  front 
of  your  offending  first,  you  have  maligned  the  phil- 
anthropist." 

"  Not  so !  I  wage  war  against  principles,  not  against 
persons.  The  exponent  of  a  principle  may  be  eminently 


EPILOGUE  259 

lovable,  while  the  principle  itself  may  be  eminently 
detestable.  I  simply  give  it  as  my  opinion  that  the 
whole  method  of  work  among  the  poor  must  be  altered. 
The  present  system  is  obsolete,  founded  on  pride  and 
vanity  rather  than  on  the  love  of  justice.  It  grafts  on 
to  the  East  End  the  toadyism  of  the  village.  Phil- 
anthropists of  the  kind  I  have  in  mind  honestly  consider 
that  they  have  done  their  duty  if,  as  it  were,  they  allow 
the  '  poor '  to  kiss  the  finger-tips  graciously  extended  to 
them." 

"  Ha ! "  exclaimed  My  Candid  Friend,  with  a  long- 
drawn  grunt  of  dissatisfaction.  "You  must  not  be  so 
severe.  You  forget  how  excellent  are  the  intentions  of 
these  good  people  ;  and  if  they " 

"  I  have  been  given  to  understand,"  I  interrupted, 
"  that  a  certain  undesirable  locality  is  paved " 

"  Yes,  yes !  We  know  all  about  that,"  cried  My 
Candid  Friend,  waving  his  hand  in  his  own  superior 
fashion. 

"And  the  sooner  we  turn  our  good  intentions  into 
good  deeds,  the  better  it  will  be  for  the  East-ender." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,"  protested  My  Candid  Friend, 
impatiently  rapping  his  knuckles  on  the  table.  "  Look 
at  what  is  being  done  for  the  East-ender.  Why,  I  read 
the  other  day " 

"  What  are  you  doing  for  him  ?  " 

"  I  ?  "  exclaimed  My  Candid  Friend,  too  astonished  to 
say  more — "  I  ? " 

"  Yes,  you.  The  responsibility  for  the  East-ender's 
unhappy  lot  lies  at  your  door.  Your  insane  scheming 
to  get  things  cheap,  your  silly  search  after  bargains  " — 
My  Candid  Friend  winced :  bargains  are  his  particular 
weakness  ;  "  follies  of  that  kind  keep  your  brothers  and 

S  2 


260  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

sisters  at  deadly  work  for  a  deadly  wage.  The  pot  of 
jam  you  buy  for  sevenpence,  and  the  bloater  paste  you 
buy  for  twopence " 

"  /  buy  bloater  paste  ?  7  buy  jam  ?  "  cried  My  Candid 
Friend,  rolling  his  eyes  heavenwards  and  showing  the 
whites. 

"  Well,  you  eat  'em,  and  it  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
In  their  cheapness  lies  the  proof  of  your  degeneracy. 
As  a  follower  of  Christ,  have  you  done  your  best  for  His 
little  ones  ?  Will  you  dare  to  say,  '  I  know  not :  am  I 
my  brother's  keeper?'  to  the  voice  clamouring  within 
you,  '  Where  is  thy  brother  ?  '  Say  so,  if  you  like  ;  but 
I  tell  you  that  your  plea  of  ignorance  or  irresponsibility 
is  the  plea  of  a  coward." 

"  Stow  it !  "  cried  My  Candid  Friend.  "  That's  a  bit 
too  strong.  Your  cigar  has  gone  out ;  and,  if  you  can't 
be  a  bit  decent,  I  shall  do  the  same." 

I  struck  another  match,  and  puffed  away  for  a  minute 
or  two.  Then  I  said — 

"  Look  here,  old  chap  !  we'll  drop  recrimination,  be- 
cause we're  all  in  the  same  boat.  Now,  to  get  to  the 
root  of  the  matter,  what  was  the  Master's  golden  rule  of 
conduct  ?  Was  it,  or  was  it  not,  '  Whatsoever  ye  would 
that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them  '  ?  If 
you  were  an  East-ender,  what  would  you  want  people  to 
do  for  you  ?  Adopt  the  milk-sop  policy  of  so  many 
clergymen  and  women  ?  Give  you  a  free  tea  occasion- 
ally ?  Send  you  a  ticket  for  soup,  grocery,  or  coal  ?  By 
no  manner  of  means.  Why,  you  would  want  them  to 
come  and  personally  acquaint  themselves  with  your 
work  and  your  play,  to  take  interest  in  your  children 
and  make  the  acquaintance  of  your  wife.  The  problem  of 
the  East-ender's  life  is  not  going  to  be  solved  by  '  other 


EPILOGUE  261 

people ' — that's  what  I  want  to  say.  Nothing  but 
personal  devotion  will  save  him.  We  may  try  to  shelve 
the  responsibility  on  to  public  bodies ;  we  may  hire  all 
sorts  of  persons  to  do  the  work  for  us  ;  ultimately  we 
shall  have  to  assume  the  responsibility  and  do  the  work 
ourselves.  To  the  fashionable  woman,  who  '  really  has 
no  notion  how  the  poor  live ' ;  to  the  successful  mer- 
chant, who  considers  '  business '  a  sufficient  excuse  for 
neglect ;  to  the  artist,  the  poet,  the  politician,  we  have 
but  one  message  :  '  Your  riches  will  be  sanctified  when 
enriching  others  ;  your  powers  will  be  justified  when 
working  for  others  ;  your  future  heaven  will  be  assured 
when  you  have  saved  others  from  a  present  hell.'  You've 
got  to  do  the  work  yourself,  my  son." 

"  I  don't  follow  you,  Free,"  objected  My  Candid  Friend. 
"  You  are  talking  Greek.  Hang  it !  How  can  I  do  the 
work  myself?" 

"  By  living  with  these  people,  and  so  making  them 
realise  the  meaning  of  brotherhood." 

My  Candid  Friend  sprang  from  his  chair  as  if  he  had 
been  shot. 

"  Me  ?  "  he  screamed.     "  Me  live  in  the  East  End  ?  " 

"  And  why  not  ?  If  I  could  convince  you  that  we 
have  infinitely  more  in  common  with  the  East-ender 
than  you  have  ever  suspected,  I  should  have  taken  the 
first  step  towards  reconciliation.  I  fail  to  see  why, 
because  you  keep  horses,  and  occupy  a  big  house,  and 
have  a  place  in  Surrey,  you  shouldn't  pass  some  weeks 
of  every  year  in  the  East  End — not  as  a  professional 
philanthropist,  mind  you,  but  as  a  citizen." 

"  Horses  and  carriages  and  all  ?  " 

"  Horses  and  carriages  and  all." 

My  Candid  Friend  chuckled. 


262  SEVEN  YEARS*  HARD 

"  You  are  thorough-going,  at  any  rate,"  he  said ; 
"  but  you  seem  to  forget  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
Society,  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  class  distinction. 
We  West-enders  have  our  duties  to  one  another,  you 
know." 

"  As  a  Christian,  I  protest.  You  have  no  duties  to 
the  West  End  which  you  have  not  also  to  the  East 
End.  A  Christianity  of  accepted  separation  is  a 
contemptible  sham.  There's  no  sense  in  it ;  there's  no 
reason  for  it ;  and  it  is  fraught  with  the  greatest  possible 
danger  to  the  commonwealth." 

In  my  excitement  I  put  the  lighted  end  of  my  cigar 
in  my  mouth. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  asked  My  Candid  Friend,  with 
the  utmost  calmness. 

"  I  was  about  to  observe,"  I  replied,  carefully  measur- 
ing my  words,  "  that  an  illustration  might  help  you  to 
understand  my  meaning." 

"  Thanks  !  "  murmured  My  Candid  Friend,  ungrate- 
fully. 

"  To  argue  from  analogy,  then.  It  is  but  a  few  years 
since  Suburbia  was  supposed  to  possess  distinction  only 
by  virtue  of  its  being  within  easy  hail  of  Charing  Cross. 
In  those  days  it  was  pathetic  to  observe  with  what 
feverish  anxiety  the  young  Thompson-Browns  sought 
to  prove  that  their  house  was  twenty-seven  feet  five 
inches  within  the  four-mile  radius.  But  the  new  genera- 
tion of  Thompson-Browns  don't  care  the  toss  of  a 
button  whether  it  is  or  not.  Their  suburb  is  the  centre 
of  a  civic  life  of  its  own.  They  have  their  town  hall 
and  their  theatre,  their  local  charities  and  their  local 
scandals.  Suburbia  is  no  longer  outcast :  it  has  found 


EPILOGUE  263 

itself.  And — this  is  the  point :  don't  smile  so  super- 
ciliously— it  has  found  itself  in  spite  of  the  West  End" 

"Oh,  it  has,  has  it?" 

"At  present,"  I  continued,  ignoring  the  sarcasm, 
"  ninety-nine  Londoners  out  of  a  hundred  regard  the 
East  End  as  socially  impossible.  This  is  the  view  even 
of  those  who  '  work '  there.  But,  within  the  next  few 
years,  unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  the  East  End  will 
begin  to  show  how  possible  it  is.  You  West-enders 
who  want  to  survive  had  better  assist  it  in  its  evolution. 
It  is  not  above  desiring  your  help.  In  its  poverty  it 
calls  to  you  rich  ones  for  wealth  ;  in  its  greyness  it  looks 
to  you  brilliant  ones  for  light.  If  *  Society'  turns  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  East  End,  it  will  do  so  at  its  peril ;  its 
very  name  will  pass  elsewhere." 

"  Oh,  its  very  name  will  pass  elsewhere  !  "  echoed  My 
Candid  Friend.  "  My  excellent  lad,  your  wit  is  out,  and 
so  is  your  cigar." 

I  threw  the  thing  into  the  grate,  and  drew  in  my 
chair  a  couple  of  inches.  My  Candid  Friend  edged 
away. 

"  Look  here  !  "  I  exclaimed  ;  and  my  voice  grated  on 
my  own  ear,  so  rasping  it  was.  "  Bear  with  me  a 
moment !  We  have  cramped  that  majestic  word  with 
the  shackles  of  conventionality.  What  is  Society  ? 
Are  not  this  man  and  that,  this  woman  and  that,  of  one 
flesh  and  blood  ?  The  hard-working  dock-labourer  and 
the  hard-working  Cabinet  Minister,  physician,  merchant 
— are  not  their  aims,  and  even  their  methods,  almost 
identical  ?  You  speak  of  class  distinctions  ;  you  create 
an  impassable  gulf  between  East  and  West.  Madness  ! 
Madness,  I  say.  The  same  sunshine  is  over  all.  God's 


264  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

breath   is   in   all.     We  shall  all  die  some  day,  sha'n't 
we?" 

"There  is  a  popular  impression  to  that  effect,"  ad- 
mitted My  Candid  Friend. 

"  And  the  popular  impression  is  correct.  The  gorgeous 
lady  who  ogles,  you  from  her  corner  in  Regent  Street, 
and  the  vulgar  little  trull  who  openly  bids  for  your 
favour  in  the  East  India  Road — what  difference  is  there 
between  them  ?  Nay  !  is  there  any  fundamental  dis- 
tinction between  the  elegant  damsel  sweeping  along 
the  Row  in  her  carriage  like  a  flash  of  well-bred  sun- 
shine, and  the  Millwall  factory-girl,  rough  of  tongue  and 
light  of  heart,  just  out  from  her  pickling  and  rope- 
twisting  and  asbestos-making  ?  " 

" '  Nay '  is  good,"  murmured  My  Candid  Friend,  as 
if  considering  a  nice  point ;  "  distinctly  good.  Much 
virtue  in  '  Nay  ' !  " 

"  Don't  be  a  fool  ! "  I  exclaimed,  irritably.  "  Tell  me 
what  you  really  think." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  really  think,  then,"  said  My 
Candid  Friend,  suddenly  waking  up.  "  You  are  talking 
the  most  utter  balderdash.  You  are  giving  expression 
to  sentiments  quite  unworthy  of  your  cloth.  You  are 
propounding  a  theory  of  society  which,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  is  impossible  of  realisation.  To  speak  frankly,  I'm 
sick  of  the  subject.  It's  East  End — East  End — East 
End,  morning,  noon,  and  night.  Why  the  dickens  don't 
you  leave  the  East  End  alone  ?  Why  don't  you  let  it 
evolve  itself?  In  my  opinion  it  wants  no  help  from  any 
of  us." 

" '  The  eye  cannot  say  unto  the  hand,  I  have  no  need 
of  thee,'  "  I  quoted  ;  "  *  nor,  again,  the  head  to  the  feet,  I 
have  no  need  of  you And  those  members  of  the 


EPILOGUE  265 

body  which  we  think  to  be  less  honourable,  upon  these 
we  bestow  more  abundant  honour.'  The  mistake  we 
have  all  made  in  the  past  is  to  think  that  one  part  of 
Society  can  do  without  another,  forgetting  that  when 
one  member  suffers  all  the  members  suffer  with  it,  that 
when  one  member  is  honoured  all  the  members  are 
honoured  with  it." 

"That's  rational  enough,"  exclaimed  My  Candid 
Friend.  "  Very  well  put !  But  surely  we  may  leave 
matters  in  the  hands  of  those  good  people  who  are 
so  nobly  devoting  themselves  to  the  cause  of  the  poor. 
The  East  End  wants  no  interference  from  us,  you  under- 
stand— us  West-enders — not  directly,  I  mean." 

"  Right !  And  wrong  !  "  I  answered.  "  It  doesn't 
want  your  interference  as  individuals  ;  but  it  does  want 
your  interference  as  a  part  of  Society.  Nobody  wants 
you  to  set  up  some  little  twopenny-halfpenny  show 
of  your  own,  and  fall  to  banging  the  drum's  hide  in 
and  whistling  till  you  crack  ;  but  what  you  and  I  and 
everybody  have  got  to  do  is  to  put  our  shoulders  to  the 
wheel  that's  got  stuck.  Metaphor  mixed  ?  Oh,  well, 
never  mind  about  that.  The  characteristic  weakness  of 
our  philanthropy  lies  in  its  manifold  mutually  exclusive 
organisations.  What  is  needed  is  a  great  scheme  of  co- 
operation. We  of  the  Church  of  England  must  first  set 
ourselves  right,  resolutely  using  the  knife  *  to  every 
malignant  growth.  Then,  without  sacrificing  personal 
conviction,  we  must  throw  in  our  lot  with  all  real  effort — 
real,  mind  you  ! — assuming,  in  our  corporate  capacity,  the 
largest  possible  responsibilities,  and  resolutely  quashing 
the  solemn  trifling  of  vain  and  ignorant  persons.  Could 
we  cry  an  amnesty,  and,  ceasing  to  compete,  work  in 
accord  for  ten  good  years,  what  might  not  be  accom- 


266  SEVEN  YEARS'  HARD 

plished !  If  we  would  save  our  religion  from  failure, 
and  ourselves  from  everlasting  dishonour,  we  must  join 
hands,  even  at  the  eleventh  hour,  with  whatsoever 
things  are  true,  and  honest,  and  just,  and  pure,  and 
lovely,  and  of  good  report,  no  matter  from  what  direc- 
tion they  come,  or  by  what  shibboleth  of  separation  they 
may  be  called." 

For  the  first  time  My  Candid  Friend  seemed 
interested.  "Well,"  he  said,  "and  what  would  this 
wonderful  combination  of  forces  effect  ?  " 

"  Everything  !  Valleys  of  misunderstanding  would 
be  exalted ;  mountains  of  difficulty  would  be  laid  low. 
The  crooked  would  be  made  straight,  the  rough  places 
plain  ;  and  the  glory  of  the  Lord  would  be  revealed." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  quote  so  much,"  objected  My 
Candid  Friend.  "  Tell  me  in  plain  English  what  you 
mean." 

"  I  mean,"  I  answered,  putting  the  brake  on,  as  it  were, 
"  that  the  East  End,  under  such  a  scheme,  would  be  a 
cleaner,  comelier,  and  kinder  place  all  round.  The 
streets  would  be  scrupulously  clean,  the  drains  absolutely 
sweet.  No  refuse  of  shop  or  smoke  of  factory  would  be 
permitted  to  pollute  the  air.  The  houses  would  be  well 
built  and  commodious  ;  and  for  each  there  would  be  a 
garden  in  front,  or  at  back,  or  on  the  roof.  In  the 
streets  there  would  be  shady  resting-places,  where  the 
old  might  meditate  and  doze ;  and  enclosed  spaces, 
furnished  with  sand-heaps  and  gymnasia,  where  the 
young  might  play.  And  everywhere  would  be  fountains 
of  living  water  for  the  refreshment  of  the  body  and  the 
delight  of  the  eye,  and  public  gardens  bright  with 
flowers  and  comforting  with  greenth  of  grass ;  and  the 


.EPILOGUE  267 

air  would  be  sweet-smelling,  as  the  Lord  God  made  it, 
and  not  stinking  with  corruption,  as  man  has  made  it. 
All  the  roadways  would  be  direct  enough  for  lightning- 
swift  transit  to  and  from  the  centre  of  London  and  the 
noble  monuments  of  our  national  greatness,  and  broad 
enough  for  the  quickly  changing  conditions  of  life.  And 
here  and  there  and  everywhere,  as  these  mighty  tho- 
roughfares branched  away,  octopus-like,  into  the  far 
distance,  would  be  vast  stretches  of  moor  and  forest,  of 
hill  and  dale,  in  all  their  natural  beauty ;  and  the 
niggardly  philanthropy  which  satisfies  itself  with  the 
conversion  of  a  smelly  churchyard  or  two,  would  be 
swept  away  before  the  wider  recognition  of  human 
claims.  In  that  day  the  worker  will  be  honoured  for 
his  toil,  and  not  despised ;  and  he  will  have  scope  for 
individuality,  and  space  for  recreation  of  body  and  mind  ; 
and  wisdom  will  be  his  to  exercise  the  one  discreetly  and 
to  fill  the  other  worthily.  In  that  day  his  employer  will 
trust  him,  and  will  deem  it  no  small  privilege  to  lead  him 
upwards  and  onwards,  by  means  of  books  and  pictures 
and  music  and  dancing  and  the  drama ;  and  the  em- 
ployer's reward  will  be  found  in  the  more  fervent  zeal 
and  larger  usefulness  of  his  servant." 

"  And  the  inspiration  for  all  this  ?  "  asked  My  Candid 
Friend. 

"The  life  of  the  Master.  For  Christians  and  non- 
Christians  alike,  there  could  be  no  better  means  of  keep- 
ing the  heart  strong  and  tender,  the  affections  pure,  and 
the  aim  worthy,  than  daily  contact  with  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 
When  the  kingdoms  of  this  world,  with  its  councils  and 
parliaments,  its  boards  and  committees,  its  wharves  and 
its  workshops,  its  schools  and  its  universities,  its  nurseries 


268  SEVEN  YEARS1  HARD 

and  its  drawing-rooms,  have  become  the  kingdoms  of 
our  God,  then  Christ  the  Emancipator  shall  reign  in 
London  even  as  He  reigns  in  heaven." 

"  More  quotations  ! "  grumbled  My  Candid  Friend. 
"Yet,"  he  added,  under  his  breath,  "it  is  a  noble 
dream." 

"It  will  be  a  nobler  reality,"  said  I. 


THE    END 


R.   CLAY   AND   SONS,    LTD.,    BREAD   STREET   HILL,    B.C.,    AND   BUNGAY,   SUFFOLK. 


UNIVEKSm  O*   CALIFORNIA  LIB* 


30?n-6,'l4: 


YC  07422 


